


Confidence

by HappyReader82



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Grifters AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-15 02:36:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7202840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyReader82/pseuds/HappyReader82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A B/W rival grifters caper. Lots of scams, hustles, swindles, flimflams and Big Stores.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London

**Author's Note:**

> If you only read one Bering & Wells grifters fic this year, read scotchplaid's Burned. It's fantastic.
> 
> If you fancy another - here it is.

Cold, thinks Myka. Always so damn cold in this city, whatever the weather. And this is summer?

 

She pulls the belt of her raincoat tighter around her; adjusts her glasses, tucks a red-streaked strand of hair behind her ear.

 

He's alone at the table: head bent over a Financial Times, university tie stretched tight across the pinstripes of his paunch. He hasn't ordered food yet, she notices - he's here for a while.

 

An apologetic word to the maitre d' about the breeze from the balcony - apologies, she's found, really _get_ _things done_ with the English - and she's seated at the table next to his, close enough to hear the disapproving tuts and sighs he releases with every turn of the page. It's a performance, she knows, this show of indignation at the state of the world - though for whose benefit, in the relatively emptiness of the restaurant, she isn't sure.

 

His jacket - a light wool blazer with a caduceus insignia on the lapel, exactly what she'd expect - hangs loosely from the back of his chair. It's the work of a second to lean back, stretch out an arm and lift the wallet from the inside pocket.

 

She palms it; waits a minute, two, then - on the pretence of a fallen napkin - bends down to place it an inch or so from where he's sitting. Which is when she sees the woman: dark features, navy suit, Myka's age or older, striding over to his table with a tight smile of recognition.

 

She changes course: brushes the wallet into the napkin, picks them both up from the ground and slides them into her lap, the leather hidden by the heavy cloth.

 

Eyes straight ahead, she picks up the menu, settles back and listens.

 

\----

 

Rupert Scott, thinks Helena, might be the perfect mark. Narcissistic, avaricious, obsessive - a walking brace of personality disorders held together with money and family connections, propelled towards his undoing - towards her - by sheer doubt-demolishing belief in the rightness of his cause.

 

There are, she knows, a thousand gaps and lapses and dissonances between appearance and reality, between the look of the thing and its essence - she operates, for the most part, in just those liminal spaces, in the almosts and the in-betweens. But there's something satisfying, something pleasurable to be found in the occasional moment of concordance between surface and structure, and Scott - from his porcine chins and college cufflinks to his braying laugh and ski-slope tan - gives precisely that pleasure, that satisfaction. He is exactly as he appears to be.

 

"Wonderful to see you again, Rupert," she says, easing down into the seat opposite his.

 

"And you, my dear," he says. His eyes drop to her breasts; linger there for a moment before flitting upwards to meet hers. "What news on the Rialto?"

 

"Straight to business, then," she says, voice pitched somewhere between disappointment and flirtation. "Shall we start with the numbers?"

 

"Let's. What do you have for me?"

 

She opens her case - Bottega Veneta, soft and recognisably expensive - and withdraws a sheath of documents, littered with charts and line graphs, screenshots and datasets. She passes them across the table; he takes them, eagerly.

 

"The polls are promising," she says.

 

"Very promising," he says, studying the papers.

 

"Everything that we've seen indicates that these four boroughs are the safest, in terms of fielding candidates." She points to a short list of place-names on the top sheet. "We can be reasonably confident, on the basis of the polling outcomes here, that your people can capture the vote share you need. In all four cases, public trust in the incumbent is very, very low."

 

"'Reasonably confident'? That doesn't sound like a solid yes to me, Georgina."

 

"I deal in probabilities, Rupert, not certainties. Would you rather I lied to you? Told you this was a sure thing?"

 

"I'd rather you told me that everything was going to plan. That these seats were in the bag, as it were."

 

"I'm not going to do that."

 

"I hired you to win this for me."

 

"And I will. Do you think this is my first rodeo?"

 

"Nobody's questioning your qualifications. Or your capabilities. I'd just like to be sure that we're moving in the right direction."

 

"The numbers speak for themselves. Field your candidates and you will very likely win - the odds are in your favour. But there are no guarantees, surely you know that?"

 

He looks down again at the papers.

 

"What are these?" he says, indicating one of the graphs.

 

"Social media," she says dismissively.

 

"It says I have followers?"

 

"350,000, yes. But that's your personal account. The party's has closer to half a million."

 

"Half a million people like us?"

 

"Yes. As you said: you hired me to win."

 

"And they'd all be willing to cast a vote for us on the day?"

 

"Again: there are no guarantees. But I can tell you that the outcomes of our previous campaigns suggest a strong correspondence between online behaviour - offering a Like or a Follow, for example - and offline decision-making."

 

"So the odds are...?"

 

"Very good, yes."

 

"I don't know what to say."

 

"There's no need to say anything. Things are, as you put it, moving in the right direction."

 

"Thank you, then. It's very impressive."

 

"I'm just doing my job, Rupert."

 

He hands back the papers.

 

"What are the next steps?" he says. "What do you need from me?"

 

"I'd like to get you out on the road. Have you and your people out there actually meeting the constituents. Now might also be time for us to launch a more mainstream media campaign, to start to make a dent in your advertising budget. Local news at first, I think. We can always roll it out nationally thereafter. I assume you have a war chest?"

 

"How else would I pay for you?"

 

"Good. I'll need full access."

 

"Of course."

 

The woman at the next table - a willowy redhead with terrible shoes - looks up from her coffee and locks eyes, momentarily, with Helena.

 

Perhaps, she thinks. In another time and place, perhaps.

 

"When can we start?" he says.

 

She smiles.

 

"We've already started," she tells him.

 

\----

 

"I didn't do it," says Myka, back in the apartment.

 

"I knew it!" says Pete. "I knew you couldn't handle the rope!"

 

"The timing was off," she says, leaning back into the warm recesses of the couch. For a furnished rental, she thinks, they really didn't do so badly - Artie's taste in accommodation is improving every time. "He wasn't alone."

 

"Betcha _I_ could've made it work."

 

"Really? Like that?"

 

She gestures down at the plastercast moulded to his left leg, the sling supporting the opposite shoulder.

 

"Even with these babies," he says. "I'm a professional."

 

"We should try it next time" she says. "See how long it takes for you to pick up a wallet with that wrist. Judging by your performance with the ramen and the chopsticks last night, we'll be there a while."

 

"I'm still, what did you call it? Dexterous. Still dexterous. One bowl of noodles doesn't prove anything. And it's not like Artie can use chopsticks either."

 

"Artie never plays the inside. He doesn't need dexterity."

 

He pouts; presses his weight down onto his crutch.

 

"Who was it, anyway?" he says.

 

"Who was who?"

 

"With Scott. This afternoon."

 

"Some British woman."

 

"This is London, Mykes. They're all British."

 

"I think she was his campaign manager - they were talking strategy."

 

"You should get Artie to look into it when he gets back. We didn't factor that in. Wasn't Scott supposed to be running the show?"

 

"He was. I guess she's a new player."

 

"What's she like? Other than British."

 

"From what I heard? Arrogant. Upper class. Sort of... uncomfortably sexual."

 

"I should meet her. I think we'd get alone."

 

"She'd eat you alive."

 

"What a way to go, though, right?"

 

She throws a cushion at him from across the room. He bats it away with the crutch, temporarily losing his balance on the descent.

 

"Did you get a name?" he says, righting himself.

 

"Georgina something."

 

"Georgina." He rolls the name around his mouth, drawing out the vowels. "Georgina. I like that."

 

"You'd better hope she likes a man with a limp, then."

 

"It's really more of a hop right now."

 

He demonstrates, this time toppling over altogether. The carpet breaks his fall.

 

"I'm tempted to leave you there," she says.

 

"Like that's a threat. This floor's more comfortable than the bed I had in the last place."

 

"It was Tokyo. Everyone sleeps on futons there."

 

"May as well have been concrete. Hey, do you think I should run interference? On this Georgina?"

 

"Unless you plan to do it from a prostrate position, no."

 

"Someone's gonna have to, if she's a player. Especially if she's managing the campaign now."

 

"I'll do it. I'll talk to Artie, get him to do a little digging, and I'll do it."

 

"You think she's, you know... one of the girls?"

 

"What? No. I don't know. And even if she was... is that the only way you know how to work someone?"

 

"Hasn't failed me yet," he says, waggling his eyebrows.

 

"I'm calling Artie. You can fend for yourself where you are."

 

He holds the sling away from his body, rolls onto his belly and looks up at her, imploringly.

 

"It wouldn't be the worst thing," he says. "For you, I mean. Getting some skin in the game."

 

"I'm going to ignore that metaphor. The same way I'm going to ignore you, right now."

 

She disentangles herself from the couch and walks to the kitchen, stepping across him as she goes.

 

"Come on!" he calls after her. "I'm just looking out for you! And you look like Rita Hayworth with that hair - who wouldn't be into that?"

 

\----

 

Claudia has a new toy: a modular television, eight screens in one, spread out across one wall of the office.

 

"Is that for us?" says Helena, closing then locking the door behind her. "Or just for you?"

 

"For us," says Claudia, pulling off her headphones. "Obviously for us. Look."

 

She picks up a remote control - one of over 20, Helena knows, that she keeps to hand in a drawer of her desk - and points it at the television, which springs to life immediately, each screen displaying a different set of information, a different detail of the job. The middle screen shows a telephoto shot of Rupert Scott, stepping out of his Mercedes and into what Helena recognises as his city bolt-hole, a penthouse flat in Pimlico with a view of the river.

 

"To keep us focused on the job," says Claudia, drawing circles around Scott's face and neck with a laser pen.

 

"Useful," says Helena. "How much did it set us back?"

 

"You think I _paid_ for it? With money? I'm hurt."

 

"My apologies. I should have known better."

 

Claudia presses a button on the remote, and a plain-text webpage appears on the middle screen, relegating Scott's face to the far-left of the wall.

 

"So, I directed another 5,000 followers to the party account - they should show up in the next day or two."

 

"Will that be enough?"

 

"More than that and it'll look suspicious. I know your guy thinks digital technologies are something that happen to other people, but all it takes is someone to tip him off, whisper something in his ear, and the whole thing crumbles. Slow is better."

 

"I trust you."

 

"You should. Did you get the account numbers?"

 

"He's having his assistant send them over this afternoon."

 

"By email?"

 

"I believe so."

 

"That's just asking for it. I'm telling you, H.G. - if we weren't scamming him, someone else would be. Some Nigerian prince, probably."

 

"When were you hoping to transfer the funds?"

 

"Soon. But slow is better there, too. Slow and incremental. £5000,000 he'll miss, if it goes all at once - £20,000 a week on expenses, maybe not. Not at first, anyway."

 

"So long as we can wrap this up before he decides it's time for us to take that campaign bus of his out on the road."

 

"The one that looks like an ice-cream truck?"

 

"I'm not entirely convinced it _wasn't_ an ice-cream truck, once upon a time. Its PA system looks decidedly homemade."

 

"Give me a week. That should be enough."

 

"Alright. Then perhaps we can take that holiday we talked about."

 

"Wasn't this whole trip supposed to be a holiday? I was planning to do the tourist thing along the Southbank before you met our friend here."

 

"Could _you_ have walked away from a mark like this?"

 

"Not the point. I needed a holiday, H.G. _You_ needed a holiday. Something to take your mind off the game for a while."

 

"I rather like the game."

 

"I know you do. But you can't be on every hour of the day. You need to relax. Lay down on a beach somewhere and just... stop. Somewhere with sunshine. Fancy wine. A little romance, even."

 

"I'm perfectly fine as I am, thank you."

 

"See, that's your problem. You _think_ you're doing fine. But you're gonna burn yourself out. And I don't even remember the last time you..."

 

The screen emits a high-pitched, momentarily deafening whistle, then a series of pings that put Helena in mind of white goods and kitchen appliances.

 

"What the hell?" says Claudia.

 

She pulls out a keyboard from the wooden panel below the television and begins to type - fingers moving rapidly over letters and digits, projecting line after line of code across all eight screens.

 

"What?" says Helena. “What is it?

 

"This is weird. This is seriously weird."

 

"Please explain, and quickly. There's something quite alarming about the sounds I'm hearing."

 

"Someone's in the website. The new one."

 

"The one you made for Scott?"

 

"No. Georgina Herbert’s website. _Your_ website."

 

"That hardly seems cause for alarm. It's visible to search engines, is it not? It's probably Scott's assistant double-checking my credentials before she releases the funds."

 

"You don't understand. Someone's _in_ the website, not on it. Whoever it is, they're in the back door."

 

"We're being hacked?"

 

"More like... visited. They're not changing anything. Just kinda... looking around."

 

"Do you know who?"

 

"No. But you better believe I'm gonna find out."

 

\----

 

Artie walks the room, back and forth, worrying his chin with his thumb and finger as he paces.

 

"Here's the thing," he says. "This woman, this campaign consultant: she doesn't exist."

 

"What does that mean?" says Myka from the couch.

 

"She's not real," says Artie.

 

"I don't understand.”

 

"It means you got played," says Pete, smirking. "Or somebody did, and you got caught in the crossfire. She's a grifter. Right, A-man?"

 

"It looks that way," says Artie. "And don't call me that. Never call me that."

 

"The identity's a fake," says Pete. "Less than two months old. There's a Georgina Herbert mentioned in one of Scott's press releases - we figure that's who you saw earlier – so Artie followed the trail, and there's a ton of stuff about her and the work she's done with all these other politicians. One of the tabloids has her out to dinner with Tony Blair and his wife. But..."

 

He pauses, dramatically.

 

"None of it's real?" says Myka.

 

"None of it existed until earlier this year," says Artie. "The articles are plants - mock-ups. And the online profiles, even her website - they all date back to April 1st."

 

"So whoever she is, she's working Scott?" says Myka.

 

"One way or another," says Artie. "And probably not alone. There's too much detail there for just one person.”

 

Myka pauses; thinks.

 

"What do we do?" she says.

 

"I say we take her down," says Pete. "Her and Scott both."

 

"No," says Artie. "We back off."

 

"What?" says Pete. "No way. We've been prepping this since Paris."

 

"It's too big a risk," says Artie. "Too many variables. Two crews working the same mark? No good can come of that."

 

"We can handle it," says Pete. "Right, Mykes?"

 

"Is there a third option?" says Myka. "If she's after Scott too, couldn't we reach out to her? See what play she’s working?"

 

"Team up?" says Pete.

 

"Absolutely not," says Artie. "We have no idea who this woman is, or who she's involved with. She could be anybody."

 

"Or she could be just what we need," says Pete. "We're already a man down since Leena left."

 

"We'll find someone," says Artie. "But not her, okay? Not an unknown quantity. Here and now, we cut our losses."

 

"And just let her win?" says Pete. "Let her have Scott?"

 

"Yes," says Artie. "Unless you have a better idea?"

 

\----

 

Helena cuts into her steak; suppresses a shudder as the blood pools onto her knife and the plate beneath.

 

“You like it blue, I hope?” says Scott, through a mouthful of pâté.

 

“I do,” she says, biting into the meat, breathing through her nose as she swallows.

 

“Thank Christ for that. Can’t bear a woman who doesn’t know how to eat.”

 

He skewers a duck heart with his fork.

 

“I’m concerned,” he says, “about Wakefield West.”

 

“Concerned?”

 

“Your report had us down there as a foregone conclusion.”

 

“Didn’t we establish,” she says sharply, “that there was no such thing, in these circumstances?”

 

“A likelihood, then. A strong probability.”

 

“You’re ahead in the polls there, yes. What’s your point, Rupert?”

 

He places a newspaper down on the table between them – a broadsheet, folded in the centre.

 

“Today’s Telegraph,” he says. “It tells rather a different story.”

 

She scans the paper; zeroes in on the offending column.

 

“It does, doesn’t it?” she says, after a moment.

 

She holds his stare; smiles.

 

“It’s hardly cause for happiness, Georgina. They’re predicting a landslide win for the Tories.”

 

“Why do you think they’re making that prediction, Rupert?” she says.

 

“Seems clear enough to me. They took a poll of their own. An impartial one,” he adds.

 

“And who,” she says, smiling wider, baring teeth, “do you imagine they commissioned to run it, this new poll?”

 

Shock, then admiration colours his features as the realisation dawns.

 

“You little minx,” he says eventually.

 

She dips her head, a parody of self-effacement.

 

“As I told you before,” she says, “I know how to do my job.”

 

“But why? Why throw ‘em off the scent like that?”

 

“A predicted win for your candidate means a lot of attention. Attention on him, but also on you. Attention from some very powerful people who’d rather not see the status quo disrupted.”

 

“But you tell them that we don’t stand a chance, that everything’s the same as it was…?”

 

“And you’re no longer a threat. Stay an outsider, just below the radar, and you’re free to continue exactly as you have been, unimpeded.”

 

“Then, come election day…”

 

“The good people of Wakefield West – and Canley, and Fairham, and Somerset North… they vote exactly as they always intended to. Exactly as they told us they would – for you, and your candidate.”

 

“It’s genius.”

 

She takes a final bite of the bloody steak.

 

“It’s what it do,” she says. “Only ever what I do.”

 

\----

 

Half a mile from the restaurant, crossing Vauxhall Bridge, she retrieves a mobile phone from her briefcase and dials a number.

 

“You’ve reached Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency,” says the voice on the other end of the call. “How can we navigate your case?”

 

“Claudia.”

 

“Serious. Got it. What’s up?”

 

“I need you to drain the account.”

 

“Now?”

 

“Now. We’re out of time.”

 

“Okay. I’m on it. Want me to make the website disappear?”

 

“All of it. Make all of it disappear.”

 

“It’s done.”

 

“Good. Thank you.”

 

“Then what? Are you coming back to the office?”

 

“No. In fact: can you pack a suitcase and meet me at Heathrow for 4.30?”

 

“I don’t think I ever _un_ packed. Where are we going?”

 

“Spain. Tonight.”

 

“Awesome. Is this the holiday you promised me?”

 

“It will be. Eventually.”

 

“And in the meantime?”

 

“In the meantime, we have a painting to sell.”

 

“I’m not even gonna ask. I’ll see you at 4.30, okay? Terminal 5.”

 

She hangs up.

 

Helena waits a moment, takes in the view from the bridge – then, entirely innocuously, drops the phone and the briefcase into the water below.

 

\----

 

On the other side of the bridge and twenty steps behind, dark glasses covering her face and still-red hair gathered under a crochet hat, Myka watches the woman – whatever her name might be.

 

When she moves, Myka follows – over the river and through the city.  

 

 


	2. Madrid

"It's astonishing, isn't it?" says Helena to the man beside her. "The anger. The chaos. You feel it radiating from the canvas."

 

"It's palpable," he agrees. "Primal."

 

Up close, the painting dwarfs them, its monochrome oils stretching almost the length of the gallery wall. The museum itself is virtually empty, giving at least the illusion of privacy; the tourists and schoolchildren, she suspects, have been driven elsewhere by the midday heat, despite the promise of cool marble and air-conditioned corridors.

 

"I shall be very sad to see it go," she says.

 

\----

 

That afternoon, in a corner of the museum cafeteria, Helena reviews her progress. It's going well, she thinks. Better than well; it's going entirely to plan.

 

She's reviewing the next stage of the game, half-wondering where on the tourist trail Claudia might have vanished to that morning, when a woman, in defiance of the emptiness of the cafe, pulls out a chair from Helena's table and sits down opposite her.

 

Helena stares for a moment; remembers.

 

"I've seen you before," she says, taking in the still-terrible shoes, the no-longer-red hair.

 

"In London," says the woman. "You were having lunch with Rupert Scott."

 

"And here you are now."

 

"I wanted to talk to you."

 

"And so you followed me halfway across Europe? I admire your dedication."

 

She takes a sip of her coffee; waits.

 

"I know who you are," says the woman eventually.

 

Helena raises an eyebrow.

 

"I also know why you're here," the woman adds.

 

"And why is that?"

 

"You're selling Guernica."

 

She's startled, momentarily, but knows better than to let the disquiet play out across her features. Instead, she makes a show of studying the woman: face and body, top to toe.

 

"You aren't law enforcement," she says.

 

"No," says the woman. "I'm really not."

 

"Is it worth my asking who you _are_?"

 

"Why don't I tell you who _you_ are?" says the woman. "Then we can move on to me."

 

"I'm always keen to know myself better. Please."

 

The woman removes her jacket; settles back into her seat.

 

"You're Helena Wells," she says. "And you're a grifter - a very good one, if that house you keep in Dulwich is anything to go by."

 

"I'm so glad you like it. You should have made yourself known, if you were in the area - I might have invited you in."

 

"You play the long con," the woman continues. "You and your crew."

 

"My crew? Good Lord. Who knew I'd amassed a following?"

 

"You're clever, and you're careful. You don't get caught."

 

"You know, it rather sounds as if _you_ might be my following."

 

"You work fast. And you flirt, aggressively, with everyone. Including me, apparently."

 

"Can you blame me, darling? Just look at you."

 

"Right now, as far as I can tell," says the woman, "you're working the Eiffel Tower scam. The mark is a man named Jürgen van Houten. He's in real estate, worth about 3 billion - some of it inherited, most of it made through investment. He's a regular on some of those World's Worst Landlord lists. Not a nice guy."

 

"Is that significant?"

 

"To me, yes."

 

"Beautiful _and_ noble. I can barely contain myself."

 

The woman ignores her; maintains eye contact.

 

"Van Houten thinks of himself as a collector," she says. "Though from what I understand, he's more concerned with the price tag than what's in the frame. He likes Picasso; _really_ likes Picasso. He was circling Women Of Algiers when it went to auction in New York last year. Got pretty angry when he was outbid."

 

"You seem more interested in Mr. van Houten than in me. I'm almost offended."

 

"He's a good mark, I have to admit. He’s rich, he’s greedy, he’s volatile... I couldn't have chosen better."

 

"I do hope we _are_ coming back to you. I'm already _brimming_ with questions."

 

"Now we both know," says that woman, "that the Spanish government don't want to let Guernica go any time soon. This isn't the US; they don't like deaccession over here. So I'm guessing you've told him that the museum wants the sale to go through quietly. That they don't want a scandal."

 

"Who would?"

 

"So I figured: sealed bids. Obviously with you handling the auction personally. And a deposit upfront from each bidder - maybe 2% of the painting's value? Nobody's priced Guernica for a while, but if Women Of Algiers went for $160 million, we've got to be looking at more. So let's say for argument's sake that it's worth, I don't know... €200 million, or whatever that is in euros. That's $4 million already, right in your pocket."

 

"Lucky me. What a windfall."

 

"But van Houten... He's not going to want to lose this one. Not after last time. He's the only bidder here, of course - but he doesn't know that. So he puts in a little extra - something to make sure _his_ is the only envelope the board will open on the day. Another 1%, maybe? Another two million?"

 

"That's a great deal of money, for a bribe. Almost too much. A sensible person would know not to push quite so hard. I'd say 0.5% at the most, hypothetically."

 

"0.5%, then. And afterwards, after the bid and the little something extra has been delivered - then they disappear, this sensible person. And van Houten can't work out why the museum won't take his calls."

 

"What a delightful story. Almost Hitchcockian in its intricacy."

 

"I'm here to ask you not to do it - not to run the con."

 

Helena leans forward, suddenly. The movement catches the woman off guard; forces her backwards, very slightly, in her seat.

 

"If it were true," she says, an octave lower than her usual pitch, "if I were this confidence woman, this creature of guile and artifice - why on earth would I want to do that? To throw away a million-dollar payoff?"

 

"Because you can do better," says the woman. "And because I want you to come work with me instead."

 

\----

 

"This is all terribly mysterious," says Helena, balancing herself on the edge of the desk.

 

"Really? You're not used to following strange women into their hotel rooms? I find that sort of difficult to believe."

 

"They're usually more forthcoming about their intentions."

 

"I thought I'd been pretty upfront."

 

"And yet I remain very much in the dark. I'm generally offered a first name in these circumstances, even when it's transparently a false one."

 

The woman kicks off her shoes.

 

"Myka," she says, arranging herself into the Arne Jacobsen chair beside the bed. "My name is Myka."

 

"Myka. Alright. You already know mine, of course. Though I'd very much like to know _how_ you know it."

 

"I know how to dig. And you're not as well-hidden as you think you are."

 

"I'm exactly as well-hidden as I need to be. People rarely look."

 

"I did."

 

"You may be the first. Which brings us back to the earlier question of who you are, and why you've trailed me across the continent."

 

"I have a team. A crew. We do what you do."

 

"Many people do what I do. We tend not to get together for dinner."

 

"We're different."

 

"Isn't that what they all say? It's certainly what _I_ say. And we're all liars. Every one of us is the same, at base. All rats in a barrel, clambering over one another to get to the cheese."

 

"Not us."

 

"No?"

 

"No. We're not in it for the money."

 

Helena looks her over again; scans her clothes, her hair, the scant pieces of jewellery on her hands and neck.

 

"You have very expensive taste, for someone with no interest in money."

 

"It's a part," says Myka. "A costume. I put it on, I take it off. It's not who I am."

 

"Who are you, then?"

 

"Someone who's offering you a job. A good one."

 

"With your happy band of altruists? I'm afraid I wouldn't fit in at all well. I really rather like money."

 

"And I'm sure you've got enough of it to last six lifetimes. But what we do - it's better than money. More fun, too."

 

"I doubt that. You'd be surprised at just how much fun my money affords me." She grins. "Or perhaps you wouldn't."

 

"Stop it," says Myka.

 

"Stop what?"

 

"The flirting. It isn't necessary. I'm already offering something; you don't have to work me over to take it."

 

"Force of habit, I'm afraid. But go on, if you must: make your offer. Tell me what it is that you do, so that I might be persuaded to forsake the trappings of materialism."

 

"Like I said," says Myka, "we do what you do. The process is the same. It's the outcome that's different."

 

"Which is what, exactly? If it isn't remuneration?"

 

"Normally I'd say: justice. But you've made your position on altruism pretty clear. So how about this? It's payback. What we do is payback."

 

\----

 

(Later, unbeknownst to Helena, Artie will be apoplectic, his anger barely contained by the small screen of Myka's tablet.

 

"This was not the plan!" he'll say. "You were supposed to _watch_ her, not _hire_ her."

 

"I know that," Myka will say. "But it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Aren't you the one who's always telling us to follow our instincts? That sometimes our gut knows better than we do?"

 

"She's got you there, Articulus," Pete will say, off-screen.

 

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Myka will say. "She's not interested."

 

"And thank God for that," Artie will say, calming a little. "What would we have _done_ with her, if she'd said yes?")

 

\----

 

 

Back at her own hotel, with the doors to the adjoining suite thrown open and Claudia's tools and cables strewn across all available surfaces, Helena plays back the conversation; tries to puzzle out, with the benefit of hindsight, how she feels about it.

 

"I met a woman today," she says, aloud.

 

"Finally," says Claudia. "I _knew_ this holiday was a good idea."

 

"It's not a holiday. I'm working."

 

"You may be. But I'm not."

 

She puts down her crimping pliers; drops the wire she's holding onto the bed.

 

"Please be careful," says Helena. "I do sleep in there."

 

"I'll clean it up. It’s not gonna, you know... scorch your quilt or anything. And if it does, so what? It's not like it'll go on your bill. I know you worked the slip and fall to get this room."

 

"I'd still rather not drape myself in burned cotton, if it's at all avoidable. What is it you're making this time?"

 

"You'll see when it's done."

 

"I'll never understand your secrecy about these devices of yours."

 

"That's because you've never felt the weight of your expectation when I tell you I'm making you something you can use on the job. It's _crushing_ , H.G. Crushing."

 

" _Are_ you making me something?"

 

"Did you hear what I just said? Don't ask me that."

 

"Consider the question retracted."

 

"Good. What's she like?"

 

"The woman I met?"

 

"Who else?"

 

"She tried to recruit me."

 

"Recruit you? She didn't know you were already, you know... on the team?"

 

"Actually recruit me. For a job."

 

Claudia snaps the goggles she's wearing back from her eyes, onto her temples.

 

"What kind of job?" she says, suspiciously. "A real job, or our kind of job?"

 

"Our kind."

 

"Should I be worried?"

 

"That I'll leave you? Of course not. We're a unit. Even if you do insist on searing my bedspread with whatever it is that you're creating with those implements of yours."

 

"What was she offering? I need to know, if I'm gonna compete."

 

"There's no competition. She wanted me to join her group of ... I'm not even sure what you'd call them. Vigilantes? Apparently they roam the globe, righting corporate wrongs."

 

"And she wanted _you_?"

 

"I asked the very same question. But apparently the strength of my skillset outweighs my moral turpitude. Either that, or our colleagues out there really are worse than we've imagined."

 

"What was her name?"

 

"Myka."

 

"No last name? Just Myka? Like Cher?"

 

"I'm sure she has one. But she didn't offer it to me."

 

"You didn't get any other details? I mean, we should keep an eye on her, right? If she knows us, knows who we are?"

 

"She didn't know you - only me."

 

"Still. We're kind of tied together in this, and I'd rather play it safe."

 

"I understand. She's staying at the Zafiro if you're in the mood for reconnaissance."

 

"She told you that?"

 

"I was there with her."

 

"You went to her hotel room?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Where she tried to recruit you?"

 

"Yes."

 

"And you're sure it was for real? It wasn't some Craigslist deal you got tangled up in?"

 

"It was entirely legitimate, inasmuch as these things can be."

 

"Then I'm definitely in the mood for reconnaissance."

 

"Tonight?"

 

"Let me wash the burn marks off my fingers, and I'm there."

 

 


	3. Las Vegas

In another hotel room in another city, Pete and Myka play cards.

 

"Did you see the tiger downstairs?" he says, dealing a hand.

 

"Hit," she says. "There's a tiger downstairs?"

 

"In the big plastic box in the casino. How did you miss that? I saw you go out yesterday."

 

"I was looking for a bookstore. I didn't go through the casino. Hit."

 

"Did you find one?"

 

"No. I asked the concierge; she showed me to a magazine rack next to the Shrimp Shack. I kind of gave up after that. Hit."

 

"Bust. Sorry, Mykes."

 

She pushes her pile of cards towards him.

 

"I should check out Shrimp Shack," he says.

 

"You told me you were never cheating on the buffet again after Fatburger."

 

"It's not cheating. Just... keeping my options open. How am I gonna say no to deep-fried shrimp?"

 

"Are you mobile enough to make it out there? It's quite a walk."

 

She points down at his leg, now free of plaster.

 

"There's a moving walkway. I'm good to go. Besides: I've got two months of lost eating time to make up for. You know the only thing worse than British takeout? Spanish takeout. The Europeans need to step it up a notch."

 

"You won't run out of places to eat here, anyway."

 

"Tell me about it. Thank you, Artie."

 

"What?" says Artie from the adjoining room.

 

"Nothing," says Pete, loud enough to carry across the suite. "Just glad you brought us here."

 

"Not all of us," says Myka. "Some of us like our entertainment inedible."

 

"Relax," says Pete. "I'll buy you a Kindle from the drugstore."

 

"Really not the same," she says.

 

"Can you come through here?" says Artie. "It's time."

 

Pete stands, still a little shaky on his feet.

 

"This is it," he says. "Get ready for the big reveal."

 

\----

 

"Meet Marcus Leavenworth III," says Artie.

 

The screensaver on the television behind him flickers; cuts to a soft-filter image of a broad-shouldered, bare-chested twentysomething man on a beach, a beer can in his hand.

 

"He's young," says Myka.

 

"But not without experience," says Artie. "He runs a string of meat packing and export plants out in Montana. A legacy from his father, the recently-deceased Marcus Leavenworth II. Last valued at $300 million."

 

"He looks like a fratboy," says Pete.

 

"You're half-right," says Artie. "He didn't go to college, but he likes to party. He's picked up three DUIs in the last 18 months."

 

"Why is he interesting?" says Myka.

 

"And why are we here, if he's in Montana?" says Pete.

 

"Both excellent questions," says Artie. "First of all, he's not in Montana: he's here, in Vegas, the same way he is almost every weekend. Flies in Friday; flies out Monday morning. And second: he's a monster. In between the poker and the fight nights, he's found time to lay off 5,000 plant workers then hire them back as casual labor for half the wages and no health insurance."

 

"That doesn’t sound so monstrous," says Pete. "More like heartless, with a side order of fiendish."

 

"Ever known anyone pack meat for a living?" Artie says.

 

Pete shakes his head.

 

"I have," says Myka. "Half of those guys have frozen shoulders and worse by the time they hit 40. Nerve damage, missing limbs... They need healthcare."

 

"And Leavenworth knows it," says Artie. "Hence the change - it keeps costs down. And helps fund his Vegas habits."

 

"Son of a bitch," says Pete. Then: "Okay - you got me. I'm in."

 

"Myka?" says Artie.

 

She scrutinises the photo; glances from Artie to Leavenworth and back again.

 

"How do we get to him?" she says finally.

 

\----

 

The casino floor is sticky, the air thick with cigarette smoke. The gamblers are predominantly retirement age and older, the majority hunched alone over slots or gathered in small groups around the craps tables, pulling $5 chips from fanny packs.

 

"Here?" says Myka. "Really?"

 

"So Artie says," says Pete.

 

"To play?"

 

"To drink. There's a 50s diner by the sportsbook - he goes there every night for a milkshake before he hits the Strip. It's his ritual."

 

"Artie really did his homework on this one."

 

"When doesn't he? The man likes his research."

 

"You'd rather he was less rigorous?"

 

They weave past a bachelorette party, the bride-to-be wielding a foot-long margarita with formidable intent. Myka looks straight ahead; avoids eye contact.

 

"What time is he due at the diner?" she says, checking her watch.

 

"9.15. We've got an hour."

 

"What do you want to do?"

 

"We could stay where we are. Get some nachos, play the slots, keep our heads down. That's what Artie would say."

 

"I'm sensing you have an alternative suggestion."

 

"I'm just thinking, while we're here..." He nods towards the tables, the high-stakes room; raises one expressive eyebrow. "Maybe we could have a little fun?"

 

\----

 

"No counting, right?" says Myka as the cashier passes the tokens through the cage. "That's the deal. Nothing that draws any attention."

 

"Scout's honor."

 

"And try not to win."

 

"I always win. That's my thing."

 

"One win, then. No more. And nothing suspicious."

 

"Deal."

 

"And no chit-chat this time. No backstory. We are _not_ newlyweds. I did _not_ just marry you in the chapel next to IHOP."

 

"No wedding. Check."

 

They pass through the doorway, into the dimmer surrounds of the High-Limit area.

 

"Play it straight, okay?" she whispers in his ear as they sit down at the table. "Please. For me."

 

He turns to the dealer, and grins, and lays out a handful of chips across the felt.

 

\----

 

"Give me your hands," says Helena.

 

The man reaches out to her; rests his thick fingers on her upturned palms.

 

"You feel guilt," she says. "Shame."

 

"Yes," he says.

 

"Because of what you did."

 

"Yes."

 

"It was... someone close to you. A family member."

 

"Yes."

 

She studies his face; the flex of his eyelid, the furrow of his forehead, the twitch at the corner of his thin-lipped mouth.

 

"Your wife," she says. "No. Ex-wife."

 

The face changes; reconfigures itself.

 

"You were unfaithful," she says, slowly. "More than once."

 

"Yes," he says, hands trembling over hers.

 

"And it's eating away at you, inside. It's making you ill."

 

"Yes," he says.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

There's nothing redeeming in fortune-telling, she knows. No challenge, and certainly no honour. But it's lucrative enough, albeit on a smaller scale than she’s used to, and it keeps her sharp; keeps certain necessary skills in focus. It may not be work, she reasons, but it's excellent practice.

 

The man - a third-rate pornographer turned strip-club runner whose name she barely remembers - pulls his hands away; wipes a tear from his cheek.

 

"I'm sick with it," he says. "Ever since the divorce. I can't sleep, can't eat. Nothing tastes good anymore, you know?"

 

"I know," she says sympathetically. "I see it, in your aura. It's horribly congested."

 

"Like, backed-up?"

 

"Yes," she says. "Sort of... clogged."

 

"That doesn't sound good."

 

"It isn't."

 

"Can you help me? Do something to... unclog it?"

 

She takes back his hands; squeezes.

 

"I can," she says. "But it won't be easy."

 

\----

 

She leaves the condo an hour later, $20,000 in cash tucked away in a small wooden box buried deep in a beaded carpet-bag at her shoulder.

 

In a cab, on the way back to her apartment, she checks her phone - one of the burners Claudia assembled for the trip - and sees ten missed calls, all from the same number. She dials; waits.

 

"Claudia?" she says as the call connects. "Is something the matter?"

 

"It's your friends," says Claudia, breathing loudly, unevenly. "Myka and the other guy. They've been taken."

 

"What does that mean, taken? Arrested?"

 

"No. Not by the cops, anyway. They're at Babylonia, at the end of the Strip."

 

"So who has them? Security?"

 

"I think so. I didn't see everything - I was watching from the slots, and these chicks with giant cocktail glasses kept blocking my view."

 

"What did you see?"

 

"They went into the high-rollers room, hit the blackjack table. They were there for maybe five minutes before the pit boss came over with a couple of floormen. Took them both away."

 

"But they're still there? In the casino?"

 

"I guess so. In one of the back rooms, probably."

 

Helena thinks for a moment.

 

"Do you still have those documents from Chicago?" she says.

 

"On the computer somewhere, sure. But I don't see... Wait. No. _No_. H.G., we are _not_ doing that."

 

"We are doing exactly that."

 

"Why? You don't even know these people."

 

Helena catches a glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror of the taxi.

 

"Altruism," she says, smiling.

 

\----

 

The basement is decked out like an interrogation room: folding chairs, two-way mirror, metal table screwed tight to the floor.

 

It's not the first room like this that Myka's been in, though it might be the most subterranean. The very large men detaining her carry batons on their hips, lats and deltoids straining the fabric of their identical suits; the rigidity of their stances says ex-military, though she couldn't say what branch, what division. Pete would know, she thinks. Pete who is, right now - she assumes - being held by another trio of large men, in another room just like this one.

 

They wait in silence for more than 2 hours, she and her captors, until eventually the door to the room springs open and another man enters - smaller, neater, his suit a better cut.

 

He takes a seat opposite her.

 

"It was a mistake to come here, Ms. Bering," he says. "A big mistake."

 

She says nothing; keeps her mind blank, her expression neutral. She determinedly does _not_ think: he knows my name. How does he know my name?

 

"You have quite a reputation," he says. "You and Mr. Lattimer both. Frankly I'm surprised you came back to Vegas at all."

 

Back? she thinks. We've never _been_ here, not together.

 

"I thought you'd be smart enough to know better," he says, "after what you pulled at the Celestial last year."

 

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," she says. "I've never been to the Celestial."

 

"There's no misunderstanding, Ms. Bering."

 

He withdraws a square manila envelope from the recesses of his jacket; opens it, lays the contents on the table.

 

"We have the evidence," he says.

 

It's a photograph, black and white, grainy - a security camera capture. In it two people, a man and a woman, stand inside what is recognizably a vault, stacks of banknotes surrounding them on all sides. The man is Pete; the woman undeniably her.

 

We're being set up, she thinks.

 

"Where did you get this?" she asks.

 

"That's not your concern," he says. "There's only one thing you should be worried about right now, and that's whether I call the cops _before_ or _after_ I tell my friend Charlie at the Celestial that the two of you are back in town."

 

She tries very hard not to panic; to stay in control of herself, her reactions.

 

"Whoever sent you that," she says, tapping the photo with her index finger, "whoever gave you my name, fed you that information... they're playing you. It's fake. I've never been to the Celestial."

 

"I don't think so," he says.

 

The door opens again, and through it steps another man - older, authoritative, his suit even more expensive - and behind him a woman in a dark blazer, equally authoritative, shoulders squared and hair pulled back into a tight utilitarian ponytail.

 

It's Helena.

 

"This her?" says the older man.

 

"Yeah," says Helena, grimacing. "That's the one."

 

She speaks in a flat Midwestern accent: note-perfect, but disorienting.

 

"We've been looking for you a long time, Ms. Bering," she says to Myka.

 

"What's happening here?" says the man at the table. "Don, what is this?"

 

"This is Special Agent Emily Lake," says the older man, indicating Helena. "With the Organized Crime Task Force."

 

"For _her_?" He nods towards Myka.

 

"Her and Lattimer. Agent Lake and her partner followed them here from Minneapolis. Seems they got the same tip-off we did."

 

"And she wants us to hand them over? Just like that?"

 

"As I was explaining to your colleague a moment ago," Helena says, "I'd be more than happy to call in some of my men from the field office to make the arrest, if you'd prefer. They'll have to come in through the casino floor, of course, but I'm sure they'll do their best to be discreet."

 

"There's no need for that," says the older man.

 

She looks over his shoulder at Myka – coolly, appraisingly.

 

"Stand up, please, Ms. Bering," she says. "And turn around"

 

Myka complies. She feels hands at her shoulders - drawing down her triceps, pulling her forearms together - then the bite of cold metal at her wrists.

 

"I assume you know your rights by now?" says Helena, and Myka hears the smallest hint of amusement in her voice – undetectable, she imagines, to the rest of the room.

 

"Do you want us to bring Lattimer in?" says the older man.

 

"Please," says Helena. "Agent Franklin will be along in a minute. She'll take him out to the car."

 

"Through the back?"

 

"Through the back," Helena agrees.

 

\----

 

Helena's car is an unmarked sedan, dark and inconspicuous in the covered parking lot. From the backseat, her wrists still cuffed behind her, Myka considers her situation; weighs up possibilities, likely scenarios.

 

"How?" she says eventually.

 

"I'm sorry?" says Helena, turning to face her from behind the wheel.

 

"How did you know?"

 

"What had happened to you, you mean? I've been watching you. Since Madrid."

 

She thinks back; runs through memories of the previous weeks, scene-by-scene.

 

"No," she says. "Not possible. I'd have seen you."

 

"Do you really think so?" says Helena. "I can be terribly covert when I need to be."

 

"You weren't there today. I know you weren't."

 

"I will confess, I haven't always been following you directly. I've had help."

 

"Your partner. The one with Pete."

 

"Yes. You'll meet her in a moment, I'm sure."

 

She shrugs free of her blazer; shakes her hair out of the ponytail, briefly exposing her neck and shoulders. Myka keeps her eyes on the windshield, the Tarmac of the lot beyond.

 

"Why, then?" she says.

 

"Why intervene?" says Helena.

 

"Yes. What's in it for you?"

 

"Must there always _be_ something in it for me?"

 

"You told me as much, in Spain."

 

"Then consider this a momentary departure from self-interest."

 

"It isn't a play? You're not... _after_ anything?"

 

"Not in this case. Though the pleasure of your company is a delightful fringe benefit."

 

"Then do you think you might want to let me out of these cuffs? I'm a lot more fun to be around with my hands free."

 

"I’m sure you are," says Helena.

 

Myka blushes.

 

"You know that isn't what I meant," she says, her face burning.

 

"Pity," says Helena. "But as it happens I _can’t_ uncuff you quite yet - not until Claudia and your friend Pete make it out of the casino. I suspect it would undermine my credibility as an agent of the law somewhat if I were seen to have released my prisoner from her shackles the very moment I got her into the back of my car. However much entertainment her hands might provide.”

 

Myka sinks further back into the seat, releasing a little of the pressure at her shoulder blades.

 

"That accent was horrible," she says.

 

"It got you here," says Helena.

 

"You couldn't have told them you were English? With Scotland Yard, or something?"

 

"With what jurisdiction, in Nevada?"

 

"You could've thought of something. It's what you do."

 

"And as you told me before: I do it well. In any dialect."

 

The side door unlocks with a metallic click, and Pete slips in beside her, similarly handcuffed, dragging his leg behind him. His jaw is swollen; the beginnings of a bruise form at his temple. A younger woman follows him into the passenger seat - short, slight and somberly-dressed, her hair too blonde for her coloring.

 

"We were set up?" he says to Myka.

 

"I think so," Myka says. "Did they show you the picture?"

 

"Yeah. Looked pretty real. Whoever it was, they did a hell of a job."

 

"It take it you were never actually _in_ that vault?" says Helena.

 

"Why is _she_ here?" he whispers to Myka.

 

" _She_ just saved your ass from the cops," says the blonde woman. "And probably another beating from those knuckle-draggers in there. You might want to show a little gratitude."

 

"You're the partner?" says Myka.

 

"Claudia Donovan," says the woman. "H.G.'s better half."

 

"H.G.?"

 

"A regrettable nickname that seems, rather more regrettably, to have stuck," says Helena. "And a valuable reminder to think carefully before gifting books to those closest to you."

 

"H.G. Wells," says Myka. "That's cute." Then, to Claudia: "What did she get you? The War Of The Worlds?"

 

"Tales Of Time And Space," says Claudia. "Signed first edition. Came up at auction last Christmas."

 

"You bought it?" says Myka to Helena.

 

"Not exactly," says Helena cagily. "But the sentiment was there."

 

"There was wrapping paper," says Claudia.

 

"I'd love to see it," says Myka.

 

"How about we take these off," says Pete, jerking his body towards Myka's handcuffs, "and then get back to the book report?"

 

"Claudia?" says Helena. She starts the engine; pulls slowly away from the parking lot.

 

"On it," says Claudia, producing a small key from the glove compartment. Pete turns towards her, forcing his wrists up and his upper body down; she leans in and uncuffs him. He takes the key and unlocks Myka.

 

"Thank God," she says. "My fingers were going numb."

 

"We wouldn't want that," says Helena.

 

" _Now_ , H.G.?" says Claudia, tugging off the unlikely blonde hair to reveal a shorter, darker bob-cut underneath. “Really?”

 

"Can someone tell me what's going on here?" says Pete.

 

"We're the cavalry," says Helena, watching Myka through the mirror as she drives. "Swooping in to save the day."

 

"I thought you weren't interested in working with us?" he says. "Mykes?"

 

"You know everything I do on this one," she says.

 

"What do we do now?" he says.

 

"Now," says Helena, "I take you back to your hotel, whereupon you gather your things and catch the first flight you can out of McCarran. It's not safe for you to stay here."

 

"We can't do that," says Myka. "We're working."

 

"Not any more," says Helena. "If Babylonia has that photograph, you can be sure the other casinos do too - and some of their security teams will be less inclined to hold their fists in check than the one you encountered today. Whatever you were planning... it's no longer tenable."

 

"If that’s true," says Myka, "and you can't know that it is - shouldn't we try to find whoever set us up?"

 

"And maybe stop them doing it again?" adds Pete.

 

"You can do that equally well from another location," says Helena.

 

"With the right tools, anyway," says Claudia.

 

"Artie's not gonna like this," says Pete to Myka.

 

"What Artie _likes_ is immaterial,” says Helena. “He's a sensible man, I'm sure. He'll see what needs to be done."

 

"You haven't met him," says Pete.

 

"I haven't," Helena concedes. "But that's very easily remedied."

 

\----

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” says Artie to Helena. “Or you,” he adds, with a nod to Claudia.

 

Helena knocks back her whiskey – whiskey, Myka notes, that she poured without invitation from the minibar – but stays exactly where she is, one arm draped fluidly around the back of the couch, legs stretched out across the footstool.

 

“What possessed you to bring them here?” says Artie.

 

“They helped us,” says Pete, pressing an icepack to his jawline. “Got us out of Babylonia in one piece and drove us here. What were we supposed to do, _run_ back to the hotel?”

 

“Not on that knee, champ,” says Claudia through a mouthful of peanuts.

 

“How about _not show them where we’re staying_?” says Artie, more loudly.

 

“They already knew!” says Pete.

 

“He’s right,” says Claudia. “We kinda did.”

 

“None of which matters, of course,” says Helena, “because you’ll no longer be staying here after this evening.”

 

“Oh, really?” says Artie. “You’ve made that decision for us, have you?”

 

“Don’t be an idiot,” says Helena. “There’s nothing to be gained from posturing. And you don’t strike me as someone who’d place his team in jeopardy for no other reason than to spite a stranger.”

 

“You don’t know me,” he says. “Or about my team. We can handle ourselves.”

 

“Not until you know what it is you’re handling, or who it is you’re up against. Until you do, you’re working blind.”

 

“It isn’t your call. It’s ours. Right, Myka?”

 

“Yes,” she says. “But Helena’s right. We need to leave.”

 

“You want to go?” says Artie. “We’re in the middle of a job.”

 

“You mean _this_ job?” says Claudia, picking up a heavy cardboard folder from the coffee table and leafing through its contents.

 

“May I see that?” says Helena.

 

“No, you may not,” says Artie, snatching the folder from Claudia.

 

“I thought I might offer an opinion,” says Helena. “One professional to another.”

 

“Out of the kindness of your heart?”

 

“I’m renowned for my collegial spirit.”

 

“Why not let her look?” says Myka. “We’re not going to be able to run the con anyway, if we’re getting out of town. It might be good to see what she thinks.”

 

“No!” says Artie. “Pete? Help me out here.”

 

“Sorry, A-Rod,” says Pete, stealing a handful of Claudia’s peanuts. “Can’t do it. I think you should show it to her. It’s like Myka said: we’re not doing it anyway, so where’s the harm? And we could do with a second opinion when it comes stuff like this.”

 

Artie looks from Pete to Myka; sighs, dramatically, and throws the folder to Helena, who catches it with a flick of her wrist.

 

For the next two or three minutes she reads, and the room falls silent, the quiet punctuated intermittently by the sipping of soda and the crunching of peanuts. Myka avowedly does _not_ stare as Helena turns the pages.

 

“You done there?” says Pete eventually.

 

“More or less,” says Helena, closing the folder.

 

“And?” says Artie. “Please, don’t keep us in suspense.”

“Do you want my opinion?”

 

“Yes,” says Myka.

 

“Not especially,” says Artie.

 

“It won’t work,” she says, looking directly at Myka. “The setup is flawed. Fundamentally so.”

 

“How?” says Myka.

 

“Your premise is faulty. Everything hinges on your mark’s participation in this underground boxing match you’re proposing, yes? His betting on the outcome?”

 

“The fight store,” says Pete. “It’s a classic.”

 

“But it won’t rope him,” says Helena. “He’s a country boy from the mountains. He’s used to spit and sawdust – he comes to Las Vegas for the glitz, the glamour. You can’t reel him in with bare knuckles and blood on the cobblestones.”

 

“He’s a gambler,” says Artie. “We know that. He’ll bet on anything.”

 

“Anything that captures his imagination,” says Helena. “Horses, and American football games, and prize-fights. But nothing low-end; nothing _raw_. And nothing that reminds him of home.”

 

“I don’t buy it,” says Pete. “He’s a thrill-seeker. He’s chasing the rush – he doesn’t care where it comes from.”

 

“He’s more discerning than you think,” says Helena. “Look at some of his side-ventures: men’s fashions, media distribution, a record label. He likes the high life. Or what he _thinks_ is the high life.”

 

“Doesn’t mean anything,” says Artie. “That label is a dud, a vanity project. Hasn’t signed a single artist since he launched it last year. It’s dead in the water.”

 

“On the contrary,” says Helena. “It’s your way in. Were you to run the con.”

 

“What does that mean?” says Myka.

 

“Would you like me to explain?”

 

“Yeah,” says Pete.

 

“No,” says Artie.

 

“You appear to have the deciding vote,” says Helena to Myka.

 

Myka looks to Artie; to Pete; to Helena.

 

“Tell us,” she says. “Tell us how to do this.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not much prone to mining real life for fanfic (... unless we're talking real-life grifts...), but the trying-to-buy-a-book-in-Vegas-and-failing thing has actually happened to me in the past. 
> 
> Load up your e-readers before you get to McCarran, is my advice.


	4. Just Outside Of Billings, MT

The road is long and dusty, lined with Douglas-firs and junipers. From the wheel of a rented Maybach, Myka navigates sand and potholes, dirt and gravel; keeps the speedometer at a steady 30.

 

"Are we going perhaps a little slowly?" says Helena behind her, as a cattle truck overtakes them.

 

"You said we needed to be visible," says Myka.

 

"In the city. Not out here."

 

Myka presses down on the gas; brings the speed to 35, then 40.

 

"I hadn't expected you to be quite so... cautious," says Helena.

 

"I don't know these roads, okay? Everything looks the same."

 

"It's a single straight line. There's no opportunity for deviation: we literally cannot get lost."

 

"Do you want me to put the screen up? Because I will."

 

"And miss seeing you in that delightful uniform?"

 

"I shouldn't even be wearing it. It's not necessary."

 

"It's absolutely necessary. As I have explained more than once: it's the look of the thing. Your Mr. Leavenworth isn't a bright man; you need to telegraph. In his world, chauffeurs wear uniforms."

 

"It made more sense when Pete was the one wearing it."

 

"I suspect that hand injury of his will preclude any sort of driving for quite some time. You know, he really is appalling clumsy, given his line of work."

 

"He's just a little over-eager sometimes."

 

"Does that eagerness extend to his negotiation of the rural highway system? Might _he_ have been persuaded to push the accelerator beyond its current position?"

 

"This is the speed we're going. Accept it. Unless you want to drive?"

 

"I can't imagine I'd be very convincing as a chauffeur. And I'm hardly equipped to drive any sort of distance in these shoes."

 

Myka examines her, surreptitiously, through the mirror: takes in the lightly-padded shoulders, the California tan, the spiked heels of her stilettos. It's a subtle kind of transformation, she thinks - and wonders, not for the first time, which of the guises she's seen so far is the real one, the one that signifies rather than reflects.

 

"Is something the matter?" says Helena, craning forward, exposing the thin, jeweled crucifix at her throat. "You're very quiet, suddenly."

 

"I'm good," says Myka, quickly. "Just concentrating. On the road."

 

"The wide, empty, open road along which we're currently driving?"

 

"I need to keep a look out for signs. I have no idea where we are right now."

 

"We're very near. Keep going; I'll tell you when to stop."

 

The highway folds out ahead of them in undulating ribbons, stretching on towards the mountains. For a second Myka loses herself in the landscape, the almost-familiarity of the curves and ridges, picking up speed as they pass first one turnoff, then another.

 

"Here," says Helena, as a third exit solidifies ahead of them.

 

Myka steers, turning the Maybach down a curving expanse of road that peters out to dirt track after a half mile.

 

"Now," says Helena.

 

Myka stops the car.

 

"Are you sure?" she says. "There's nothing here. Literally nothing."

 

"Certain," says Helena.

 

She opens the door and steps out onto the track, towards the trunk of the car. Helena follows, heel-points tracking circular indentations in the dirt.

 

Myka crouches down beside the back wheel; pulls a sharp, needle-like knife from her inside pocket, unsheathes it and drives it forcefully into the tire.

 

A hiss of air, and the tire depresses. The Maybach sinks very slightly closer to the ground.

 

"That was...efficient," says Helena, gesturing down at the knife.

 

"I fenced in college," says Myka. "It's the same basic movements. The same muscle groups."

 

"I'm impressed."

 

"Come on. You must do this kind of thing all the time, you and Claudia, the kind of games you run. I've seen those gadgets she brought with her."

 

"They tend not to require quite so much exertion on my part."

 

"I guess I do brute force well."

 

She wipes a hand across her forehead, already beginning to sweat in the heat of the early morning sun; slides the knife back into her pocket. She looks up; sees Helena staring down at her, the unexpected softness of her expression at odds with the cold-steel confidence of her clothes and posture.

 

"What?" she says.

 

When Helena doesn’t reply, Myka stands; leans back against the trunk.

 

"Keys are in the ignition if you need them," she says. "Is the TV on?"

 

"It's on," says Helena. "I've set the clip to play on a loop. But we have a few minutes."

 

She joins Myka by the trunk; rests back against the warm metal.

 

"What did you study?" she says.

 

"When?" says Myka.

 

"At university. While you were fencing."

 

"Right. Languages, mostly. German, Russian, Portuguese. A little Mandarin."

 

"That must come in handy."

 

"It can do. You pick things up more easily, I guess."

 

"I'm sure."

 

"What about you?"

 

"What about me?"

 

"You and languages. I know you have some Spanish, at least. I heard you at the Reina Sofía."

 

"I have... bits and pieces. And of course I have Claudia."

 

"She helps you out?"

 

"She's a universal translator, when she needs to be. I don't know where she finds the time to learn it all."

 

"You seem close, the two of you."

 

"We're partners. And we've known one another for a long time."

 

"Not that long, surely? She can't be any more than twenty two, twenty three."

 

"Long enough, for our purposes."

 

"How did you meet?"

 

Helena pauses.

 

"That's for her to tell you, I think," she says after a moment. "But I will say, having worked alone, that a partner makes things very much easier."

 

"I couldn't do this without Pete. Or Artie."

 

"I expect not. And Pete mentioned a woman named Leena?"

 

Myka tenses; stiffens.

 

"She was with us for a while," she says. “Before London.”

 

"He said she was a cold reader?"

 

"A good one. Maybe the best I've met."

 

“But she left?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Helena turns her head towards Myka; studies her.

 

Please don't ask, Myka thinks. Please don't push this.

 

"He's here," says Helena, quietly.

 

Myka slides bodily off the trunk and looks around; sees, further along the dirt track, a man in running shorts and a yellow jersey moving towards them, a water bottle in his hand.

 

She crouches down again beside the back wheel; waits.

 

Up close, Leavenworth is better looking than their photographs suggested: strong and tan, black wavy hair gelled back from his face. And fit, she thinks - keeping a regular rhythm as he runs, arms and legs coordinated, feet pounding a fast, even pace along the loose ground.

 

He slows as he approaches them.

 

"You need help there?" he says.

 

"Flat tire," says Myka, standing.

 

"And no cell service," says Helena, in a voice Myka has privately come to think of as Generic West Coast.

 

"Happens out here," he says. "You have a spare?"

 

"No," says Helena, staring pointedly at Myka. "Seems we forgot to pack one."

 

"Sorry," says Myka, with a dip of her head, every inch the chastened employee.

 

"Want me to take a look?" he says.

 

"Be my guest," says Helena.

 

He squats beside the wheel; takes a cursory look at the tire; stands up again.

 

"Definitely a flat," he says authoritatively.

 

"Must've run over something coming off the highway," says Myka.

 

"I told you to slow down on those corners," says Helena.

 

Inside, Myka smiles.

 

"Listen," says Leavenworth, "there's a gas station a couple of miles that way." He extends a thumb behind him, towards the dirt track, away from the highway. "I could walk you up there, see about getting you a tow truck."

 

"There?" says Helena, wrinkling her nose. "Are you kidding me?"

 

"I'll go," says Myka. "It's not far, right?"

 

"A half hour," says Leavenworth, looking Myka up and down. "Maybe less, legs like yours."

 

Helena pulls open the back door of the car, aggressively enough that it swings back on its hinges.

 

"Wait a second," she says. She bends down and leans in, evidently searching for something lost in the thick upholstery of the back seat. To her left, a small television plays what could be a YouTube clip of a young girl - no more than twenty two, twenty three - singing into a microphone against a dark background that might be the padded wall of a recording studio, her eyes closed meaningfully as she reaches for the notes. Leavenworth cranes his neck forward, trying for a better view of the screen.

 

Helena disentangles herself from the seating, a carbon fiber money clip now dangling from her fingers; smoothens out the creases in her shirt and pants.

 

"Take this," she says, handing Myka a black and silver credit card from inside the clip. "Get the tow truck, and do it fast. I've been stuck out here too long already."

 

"What were you watching?" says Leavenworth, pointing to the back seat, the television.

 

"That's really none of your business, is it?" says Helena, slamming shut the door.

 

\----

 

Five minutes after Myka leaves with Leavenworth for the petrol station, Helena climbs into the driving seat of the car, turns on the air-conditioning and calls Claudia.

 

"Did she rope him?" Claudia asks, before Helena can say a word.

 

"Not quite yet. She's with him now."

 

"Is she any good?"

 

"She's doing well so far."

 

"She'd better be. I spent _hours_ memorising those chord changes."

 

"You have the voice of an angel. Who knew?"

 

"I have perfect pitch and an Auto-Tune backup. Just don't ask me to sing in public."

 

"Heaven forbid. And how are things back at the ranch? Have you and Arthur hit it off?"

 

"He's not a bad guy, you know. He just doesn't like you."

 

“I can’t imagine why.”

 

"We haven't made any progress on the doctored image, though. Agent Franklin made some calls to a few of the casinos, but nobody who got it seems to know where it came from. Whoever sent it… they did it anonymously."

 

"What now, then?"

 

"We wait, I guess. See what happens next. See if it was just Vegas whoever it was wanted them gone from, or whether there's something more to it, something bigger."

 

"Waiting? That isn't like you."

 

"You have a better suggestion?"

 

"I can't say that I do."

 

"You could always ask your girlfriend."

 

"Sometimes I forget how very young you are. And then I'm reminded, all over again."

 

"Don't even _try_ to play the age card. Pete says it too, and he's, like, forty."

 

"Says what, exactly?"

 

"That there's something going on there. With you and tall, dark and tightly-wound."

 

"I assure you there is not."

 

"Really, _Helena_?"

 

"I'm not sure what you hope to achieve by saying my name like that."

 

"And _I’m_ not sure why you're lying to me about this. Even Artie can see it. Why do you think he hates you so much?"

 

"Because I undermine his authority at every turn?"

 

"Well, yeah. That too. But also, he's protective. He worries about her."

 

"He needn’t. She's wholly capable of taking care of herself. I’d also add that his paternal instincts are entirely misplaced in this case, because - and I cannot emphasise this strongly enough - there is nothing going on that might warrant a fatherly intervention."

 

"You're kinda dense sometimes, you know that?"

 

"I'm hanging up now."

 

"Fine. Hit me up when you get to town."

 

"I will."

 

"And H.G.?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"You still need that holiday. Three weeks working a modified Spanish Prisoner in Big Sky Country does not a vacation make."

 

She ends the call before Helena can reply.

 

\----

 

As a point of pride, Myka matches Leavenworth step-for-step on the walk to the gas station.

 

"So, your boss seems kind of... hard-nosed," he says, swigging from his water bottle.

 

"You don't have to sugar-coat it," says Myka. "Not for my benefit."

 

Leavenworth laughs.

 

"Okay," he says. "What I mean is: your boss seems kind of a bitch."

 

"You got that right," says Myka.

 

"You been with her long?"

 

"Nearly a year. Longer than the last girl."

 

"She always has girls driving her around?"

 

"Yeah. She likes that kind of thing, if you know what I mean."

 

"Oh, man. Has she ever, you know... with you?"

 

"God, no. You think she wants another lawsuit?"

 

"The last girl sued her?"

 

"And the one before that. I don't know exactly how much they settled for, but I'm telling you... six figures. At least."

 

"That's a hell of a payout."

 

"She can afford it, believe me."

 

"What does she do?"

 

"With the girls?"

 

"For money."

 

"Oh, that. She's a talent agent. Back in L.A."

 

His pace slows, just a little.

 

"What kind of talent?" he says.

 

"Singers, musicians, that kind of thing," says Myka.

 

"Anyone I'd know?"

 

"Oh, yeah," says Myka. Then: "But I can't name names, it's in the contract. She's serious about confidentiality."

 

"What's _her_ name, your boss?"

 

"Chadwick. Cassie Chadwick."

 

"I've never heard of her."

 

"You wouldn't have. It's what she always says: if you know who she is, then she's not doing her job right. She's behind the scenes, you know? Pulling the strings. A lot of strings, for a lot of people."

 

"That girl, on the TV in the car back there - is she one of them?"

 

"I really can't say."

 

"Hey - I'm not gonna tell anyone. It's just… interesting stuff, am I right?"

 

"Sure," says Myka, warily.

 

"Come on, then - who is she, the girl? She gonna be the next Rihanna, or what?"

 

"She's a songwriter," says Myka.

 

"That's it? Just a songwriter?"

 

"And she sings. Plays guitar. Cassie thinks she's..."

 

"Thinks she's what?"

 

Myka stops walking; looks around, cautiously.

 

"You'll keep this to yourself?" she says.

 

"Of course," he says.

 

"It's pretty confidential stuff, you know?"

 

"I hear ya. But who am I gonna tell, around here?"

 

She stares at him for a moment, obviously torn between obligation and impulse, the need for secrecy and the compulsion to gossip, to share.

 

"Alright," she says finally. "Alright. She's Cassie's new big find."

 

"What does that mean?"

 

"Cassie - part of what she does is find people. Kids, mostly. Teenagers, college students. Gifted ones, you know? From all over the country. Not the ones on the TV talent shows - the quiet ones. The ones who write the music, play the music. She's got a team of people back home, and literally all they do all day is scout for them."

 

"Like, on the Internet?"

 

"Mostly. Video channels, websites. Sometimes they actually go to places. High school concerts, piano bars out in the middle of nowhere. Listen to the kids play, make a recording for Cassie, see what she thinks."

 

"And Cassie just found her, this new girl?"

 

"Yeah. One of her scouts, they came across a track she'd uploaded. Cassie heard it, and it blew her away. She thinks the girl... Well, that she’s gonna be bigger than Rihanna, put it that way."

 

"That's pretty big," says Leavenworth, slowly.

 

"It's why we're here," says Myka. "Why else do you think someone like her would come to Montana? She thinks a drive to Sacramento is roughing it."

 

"The girl, she's local?"

 

"Yeah, from Laurel somewhere. We're going out to meet her tomorrow morning. Why do you ask?"

 

"No reason," he says. "Just curious."

 

\----

 

From the bathroom of the gas station, Myka texts Helena.

 

He's on the hook, she says. You'd better tell Claudia to bring her guitar.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried, where possible, to write (here and in the previous story) about cities and places I know reasonably well - but have never actually been to Montana. Apologies therefore for any wild geographical inaccuracies, in this and subsequent chapters...


	5. Billings, MT

Helena knows hotel rooms. In the dozen or so years she's spent in transit, plying her trade across towns and cities, village greens and suburban sprawls, she's encountered virtually every style, every configuration of frame and furniture - boutique to budget, ornate Art Deco to sparse Scandinavian functionalist. She's suffered scalds and bedbugs in expressway motels; battled mosquitoes in Argentinian guesthouses; woken up to a view of the Burj Khalifa and the call of the Jumeirah Mosque muezzin. The high-end and the low, the decadent and the derelict - she's seen it all.

 

She has never, before today, set foot inside a log cabin.

 

"This was really the five star option?" she says, palms spread outward to the winding wooden staircase, the improbable open fire.

 

"You asked for a hot tub," says Myka, collapsing into a wingback chair next to the fireplace.

 

"In my bathroom. Not under the stars."

 

"It's the best place in town. And you wanted visible, didn't you? I think half of Billings saw us drive up here."

 

Helena drops her bag onto the sofa; walks across to the kitchen.

 

"It's well-stocked, at least," she says, pulling a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket, two glasses from the shelf below.

 

"See?" says Myka. "You'll manage just fine."

 

She slips out of her shoes; draws her feet up and underneath her.

 

"Do you have an aversion to footwear?" says Helena.

 

"Because I took my shoes off?"

 

"Because it seems to be a ritual of yours, upon entering new lodgings."

 

"I like to be comfortable. Indoors, like this. Don't you?"

 

"I'm rarely uncomfortable. Outdoors or in."

 

"You wouldn't be, I guess."

 

Helena ignores her; tears the foil from the bottle.

 

"Drink?" she says.

 

"Now?"

 

"Why not?"

 

"We're working."

 

"And yet, you're happy to go barefoot."

 

"It's not the same. I can get back in my shoes in two seconds. You can't sober up that fast."

 

"I have an enviable tolerance for alcohol."

 

She grasps the neck of the bottle in her left hand, preparing to twist it open - then stops, listens. Hears tyres rolling over woodchip; brakes tugging wheels to a standstill just outside the cabin.

 

"It's Leavenworth," says Myka, with a glance to the window. "He must have followed us back."

 

"He's more eager than I thought," says Helena. "I should put your shoes on, if I were you."

 

\----

 

She makes him wait.

 

He knocks once, loudly, on the front door. When she doesn't answer, he knocks again, more loudly. Finally he walks around to the side of the cabin; peers inside through the window; raps impatiently on the sliding panels leading out onto the patio.

 

She opens the back door; steps outside

 

"You," she says, seeing him. "From before."

 

"Marcus Leavenworth," he says, extending a hand.

 

She leaves it hanging.

 

"Why are you on my property?" she says.

 

"I wanted to introduce myself," he says.

 

He's wearing, she notices, the same running clothes as before: same shorts, same vest. Myka was right, she thinks: he really did follow them straight back from the garage.

 

"Why?" she says.

 

"Why did I want to introduce myself? So you know me. Know who I am."

 

"I really don't care who you are."

 

She turns around; steps back inside the cabin.

 

"I run a label," he says, following her. "Mastiff Records."

 

She stops in the doorway, blocking the entrance.

 

"Why should that interest me?" she says.

 

"You're an agent, right? Isn't it your job to be interested in people like me?"

 

She sighs, ostentatiously.

 

"Wonderful," she says. "Remind me to fire my driver when I get back to L.A. Now, if you don't mind..."

 

She pulls the door closed.

 

"I know about the girl," he shouts through the glass. "The one you were watching in the car yesterday."

 

She opens the door again, just a fraction.

 

"You have no idea what you're talking about," she says.

 

"Then why are you still talking to me?"

 

"There's no girl. You've been misinformed."

 

"I know she's why you're in Montana. I know you want her to sign with you."

 

"What I may or may not be doing here is not your concern."

 

"Not even if I want to buy her from you?"

 

" _Buy_ her? It doesn’t work like that. Which you'd know yourself, if you were actually in the industry."

 

"Lease her, then. Get her on contract. Whatever."

 

"For your... what did you call it? Terrier Records?"

 

"Mastiff," he says, offended. "And we're a big deal. You shouldn't dismiss us."

 

"I've never heard of you."

 

"We're new.”

 

"Then come back and see me when you're a little more established. Or better still, don't."

 

"We have money. A lot of money."

 

"Good for you. I'm sure you'll be flooding the market with bluegrass in no time."

 

She closes the door in his face.

 

\----

 

"You pissed him off, then?" says Myka later, after dinner.

 

"Thoroughly," says Helena. "If he didn't want her before, he certainly does now. If only to teach me a lesson."

 

"Tomorrow should be fun."

 

“I would hope so. What’s the point, if it isn’t?”

 

“That’s why you do this? Fun?”

 

Helena takes a sip of her wine.

 

“Not all of us have a higher purpose,” she says.

 

“I don’t know,” says Myka. “You’re here with me now, aren’t you? Maybe philanthropy suits you better than you thought.”

 

“Or perhaps I have other incentives.”

 

She smiles, directly at Myka, and Myka flushes, more aware than before of the heat of the fire, the remoteness of the cabin, the proximity of their bodies across the table.

 

“Please stop that,” she says.

 

“Stop what?”

 

“Whatever you were doing just then.”

 

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

 

“A little. I don’t know what to do with it.”

 

She looks down at her hands; at the table.

 

“I know it’s what you do,” she says. “How you operate. But I told you before: you don’t have to do it, not with me. We’re working together. You should be able to just… talk to me. Like a person.”

 

“And not a mark?”

 

Myka nods.

 

“Alright,” says Helena. “What would you like to talk about? Person to person?”

 

“Tell me about yourself.”

 

“You may need to be more specific. Or else I may steer the conversation towards further topics that engender discomfort.”

 

“Okay. Where did you grow up?”

 

“Is this really of interest?”

 

“It’s the kind of thing that people tell each other. Colleagues.”

 

“If you insist. And South West London. Barnes.”

 

“I’ve never been there. What’s it like?”

 

“Neat. Well-to-do. Painfully respectable.”

 

“How did you get from there to here?”

 

“That’s a far bigger question. Perhaps you should narrow the scope.”

 

“I’ll rephrase it, then: how did you get into the con?”

 

Helena sits back in her chair; swirls the wine around her glass.

 

“There was a woman,” she says, “when I was around Claudia’s age. She taught me. Or rather: she let me learn, while she worked.”

 

“A lover?”

 

She laughs, and Myka sees genuine amusement in the lines of her eyes, the upturned muscles of her cheeks.

 

“No,” she says, still smiling. “Not a lover.”

 

“A mentor?”

 

“I suppose. Although now she’s more of a friend than anything else.”

 

“You still see her?”

 

“We keep in touch. She works mainly in Washington.”

 

“DC? That must throw up some challenges.”

 

“She relishes them. She’s far more interested in power than in profit these days.”

 

“Did you meet her in London?”

 

“Amsterdam.”

 

“Were you working there?”

 

“No.”

 

“Studying?”

 

“No, not at the time. Surely we’ve exhausted your reservoir of small-talk queries?”

 

“Not even close. But thank you.”

 

“For what?”

 

“Turning it off, that fake-seduction thing. Actually talking to me.”

 

Helena finishes her wine.

 

“I should go to bed,” she says. “We’re up early tomorrow.”

 

Something that might be disappointment curls tight for a second in Myka’s chest, then releases, as quickly as it came.

 

“Sure,” she says. “Me too.”

 

\----

 

When she’s sure that Helena’s asleep upstairs, Myka phones Pete.

 

“Claudia made calzones,” he says, his mouth still full. “They’re unbelievable. Like, life-altering.”

 

“Is she set for tomorrow?”

 

“I’m driving her out to the house first thing. She’ll be there.”

 

“And you’ve got eyes on Leavenworth?”

 

“We’ve got GPS trackers in all three of his cars. When he moves, you’ll know about it.”

 

“Great. Perfect.”

 

“Something wrong, Mykes? You don’t usually call for an update.”

 

“Why would something be wrong?”

 

“I don’t know. Because something happened, maybe? With H.G.?”

 

“Nothing happened. Really, nothing.”

 

“But you wish it had, huh?”

 

She hesitates.

 

“What would you say, if I did?”

 

“I’d say: be careful. And hold off on telling Artie until you’re sure it’s worth the fallout.”

 

“Maybe I’m tired of being careful.”

 

“She isn’t Leena.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“And she’s not like us. She’s out for herself.”

 

“I know that, too.”

 

“Claudia really cares about her, though. So she can’t be all bad.”

 

“The feeling’s mutual, I think. They seem to look out for each other.”

 

“But she could be gone tomorrow, you know?”

 

“So could anyone.”

 

“Fair point.”

 

“Besides, this is all completely hypothetical. I have no idea how she feels.”

 

“Really? No idea at all?”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“You haven’t heard the way she talks to you? Seen the way she looks at you?”

 

“She looks at everyone like that.”

 

“Not me. Not Claudia. Definitely not Artie.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

“Then what do you think I should do?”

 

“Oh, no. I am _not_ giving advice on this one.”

 

“Aren’t you the one who told me to get some skin in the game?”

 

“Yeah, _skin_. Not feelings. Feelings are more complicated.”

 

“Supportive. Thanks.”

 

“What I’m here for.”

 

\----

 

They're back on the road before 8am.

 

"He's parked behind the front gates?" says Helena, as Myka glides the Maybach slowly away from the cabin.

 

"So Pete says."

 

"Astonishing. I really expected to have to wait a little for him to find us.”

 

"Looks like we can go straight there, if Claudia's ready."

 

"She's ready. I think she's rather looking forward to it - she so rarely gets to work the inside."

 

The car passes through the gates; pulls out onto the highway.

 

"I don't see him," says Myka.

 

"Behind the tree," says Helena. "Dark blue Maserati."

 

"Got it. He's moving."

 

"Good. You have my permission to go as slowly as you'd like on this portion of the journey."

 

Myka presses down on the accelerator, hard.

 

It takes less than twenty minutes for them to reach the house - a rundown single-storey partitioned off from its neighbours by a chain-link fence.

 

"This is it," says Myka, guiding the Maybach into the driveway.

 

"It's certainly charmless," says Helena.

 

They leave the car – Myka holding the door open for Helena as she exits – and walk to the front of the house. They knock, and Claudia answers, pulling back the mesh screen and ushering them in through the hallway.

 

"And I see it's just as delightful inside," says Helena, surveying the stained sofa, the torn wallpaper, the cigarette burns on the carpet.

 

"It needed a little work to get it into shape," says Claudia. "The landlord wanted to decorate before I moved in, can you believe that?"

 

"The audacity," says Helena.

 

"Do you have your stuff?" says Myka.

 

"Right here," says Claudia.

 

She reaches behind the sofa; retrieves an old, battered acoustic guitar.

 

"Now what?" says Myka.

 

"Now you take a seat," pointing down at the sofa, "and make yourselves at home. You're gonna be a while."

 

\----

 

Half an hour later, Helena and Myka follow Claudia out of the house, onto the front lawn. The Maserati, Helena sees, is idling on the pavement just across from where they stand, its tinted windows rolled down low - incongruous against the pickup trucks and foreclosure signs that line the street.

 

"I'm sorry," says Claudia, a fraction more loudly than usual. "I can't."

 

"I disagree," says Helena, slipping back into character. "You can. _We_ can."

 

"He's not gonna let me go."

 

"Then I'll talk to him. Have him see things from our perspective."

 

"He won't like it. I know he won't like it."

 

Helena steps in closer.

 

"This kind of opportunity doesn't come along every day," she says, tone pitched somewhere between threat and seduction. "You might want to think about that, before you walk away from what I'm offering."

 

"I can't," says Claudia.

 

Helena hands her a thick, high-gloss cardboard rectangle that might, from a distance, be a business card.

 

"I'm here in town until the end of the week," she says. "Call me if you decide you want to come sit at the grownup table."

 

She walks away, Myka just behind her.

 

\----

 

“Too much?” says Helena from the backseat of the Maybach.

 

“Maybe a little,” says Myka, smiling at her through the mirror. “I felt like I’d stepped into the boardroom with Alexis Carrington.”

 

On the dashboard, her phone buzzes: once, twice.

 

"But then," she says, glancing down at the message, "it worked. He's going in."

 

"Pull over," says Helena.

 

Myka stops the car by the side of the road, keeping the engine running; opens the door, steps outside, then climbs into the back beside Helena.

 

The TV screen is on already, this time running what looks like a surveillance feed of Claudia's hastily-assembled living room - the camera angled to capture the couch, the carpet, a section of the hallway.

 

"Are you with her?" says Claudia off-camera, her voice higher and quicker than Myka is used to. "The lady who just left?"

 

("The sound quality's incredible," says Myka, edging in towards the monitor, towards Helena.

 

"Claudia's incredible," says Helena, not moving away. "The equipment behaves exactly as she tells it to").

 

“No,” says Leavenworth, also off-camera. “No, I’m nothing to do with her.”

 

There’s a rustling; a scrape of paper and plastic on leather.

 

“This is my card,” he says.

 

“Another one?” says Claudia. “I got a lot of these things today.”

 

“Read it. Look at what it says.”

 

A pause.

 

“It’s your label?” says Claudia. “Really?”

 

“Really is.”

“And you’re here about my music?"

 

“Yeah. I’ve heard some very good things.”

 

They move into shot, Claudia guiding him into the center of the living room, directly into the camera's line of sight.

 

“What exactly is it you heard?” she says.

 

She picks up the guitar from beside the couch by its neck; plucks nervously at the strings.

 

“That you really know what to do with that thing, for a start,” he says. “I’d love to hear you play.”

 

"I'm on tonight," she says. "At Teddy’s, over in Lockwood. You can come along, if you want."

 

"I was hoping for more of a private performance."

 

(“He’s got a real way with words, doesn’t he?” says Myka.

 

They’re touching now, at the knees, the elbow joints. Myka doesn’t look down).

 

"My boyfriend's gonna be home soon," says Claudia warily, inching away from him towards the safety of the hallway.

 

He raises his palms, protesting his innocence.

 

"Woah, hey - not _that_ kind of performance,” he says. “I just wanna hear you, you know? See what all the fuss is about."

 

“That’s just what that lady said before.”

 

“And you played for _her_ , right?”

 

“A little.”

 

“A little’s all I want, I swear.”  

 

“Why?”

 

“Because it could be I could help you. That we could help each other.”

 

Another pause.

 

“One song, right?” says Claudia eventually. “Same as I did for her?”

 

“Deal,” he says.

 

She pulls the guitar strap over her shoulder.

 

“I started writing this last month,” she says. “It’s not finished yet.”

 

She runs her fingers over the fretboard; starts to sing, soft and low.

 

(“She really wrote this?” says Myka.

 

“A few days ago,” says Helena.

 

“It’s beautiful.”

 

“She’s a woman of many talents.”

 

Myka stares, captivated, as Claudia plays. She feels – thinks she feels – Helena watching her, as she watches the screen).

 

The song ends. In the living room, Leavenworth grins, then wolf-whistles; claps his hands together heartily.

 

“Amazing,” he says.

 

“You liked it?” says Claudia, unhooking the strap, resting the guitar against the couch.

 

“It blew me away. No lie.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“And it confirmed what I was pretty sure I knew already: I want you.”

 

“What?”

 

“For the label. I want to sign you. Here, today.”

 

Claudia recoils.

 

“I can’t,” she says.

 

“What? You don’t like money?”

 

“It’s not about that.”

 

“Then what? I can make you an offer – right here, right now.”

 

“The lady said that, too. Ms. Chadwick.”

 

“I’m not like her, okay? She’s an agent – she only wants her cut. Me, I can take you places. Get you wherever you want to go. Away from this place. Away from Taco Wednesdays at Teddy’s.”

 

“You can’t. You can’t take me anywhere.”

 

“You think Mastiff isn’t good for it? Believe me, we have a lot of capital. A lot of weight behind us.”

 

“It isn’t that.”

 

“Then what? I haven’t even told you what we’re willing to pay. I think you might be a little more receptive when you hear the figure I’ve got in mind.”

 

“I can’t make a decision like that.”

 

“Why the hell not?”

 

“Because I’m not allowed to!” she says, raising her voice. “Like I told the lady before: I signed a contract already. And the guy I signed with… he really doesn’t like competition.”

 


	6. Yellowstone County, MT.

The con, for Myka, is a set of moving parts: a puzzle solved through reason, the application of logic over time. Work is deduction, a mapping-out and a thinking-through – the human elements largely abstracted to component pieces, moving together as she needs them to. For Pete it's different, more linear and less cerebral - every assignment an assault course laid out against a new geography, every mark an obstacle to be conquered. He feels his way, and for the most part it works; his instincts, she knows, are better than hers, finely-tuned where hers are blunt, nurtured where hers are left to wither. Artie, as long as she's known him, has framed the job as something more competitive - a zero-sum game, the mark's loss adding up to his gain, to theirs. Privately, she understands the three of them as complementary archetypes: The Thinker, The Doer, The Player.

 

Claudia, she thinks, could be another Artie, for all her technologies: playing and strategizing; acting and reacting; two moves ahead, or twenty.

 

And Helena – Helena is a different kind of puzzle.

 

"You seem very deep in thought," she says, eyeing Myka through the rearview mirror.

 

"Just wondering about next steps," says Myka.

 

"After today?"

 

"After tomorrow, I guess. Once we're done here."

 

"I find it simpler not to plan too far ahead."

 

"You planned _this_."

 

"I did. And I daresay I'll plan the next one, when it presents itself. But if I were to be planning the next one _now_ , while this one is in progress... Who knows what that might do to my concentration?"

 

Myka looks down at the dash, at the moving dots of her phone's GPS.

 

"He's catching us up," she says.

 

"Let him," says Helena. "It's easier if we all arrive together. I certainly have no desire to wait around in this heat."

 

Easing off the gas, Myka signals left; turns the Maybach into a rising stretch of suburban road marked by ever-larger brick and stone-clad houses. At the very end of the road she sees their final stop, a Greek Revival eyesore ringed by white concrete pillars. She drives towards it; hits the brake beside the pair of sleeping lion statues that separate the driveway from the sidewalk.

 

"It's perfect," says Helena, taking in the house from the back window. "So wonderfully gaudy; I can almost taste the satin furniture."

 

"Pete chose it," says Myka. "Between you and me, I think he's watched Scarface one too many times."

 

They leave the car – Helena letting herself out, this time – and position themselves on the sidewalk.

 

Half a second later, Leavenworth's Maserati pulls in behind them.

 

"Here we go," says Myka, under her breath.

 

"What are you doing here?" says Helena, as he steps out of the car.

 

"Same thing you are," he says. "Your girl gave me the address."

 

He's more confident than before, Myka thinks; more cocky, more disdainful.

 

"Just gave it you?" says Helena. “Of her own volition?”

 

"Well, no," he says. "I might have pushed her, just a little. But she knows she's got a good thing coming, if I make this happen."

 

"You think this is a bidding war?"

 

"If it is: I hope you bought your checkbook. Because for me? Money's really not a problem."

 

He brushes past her, up the driveway and towards the steps that lead to the front of the house. Helena chases after him, Myka on her heels.

 

The front door is solid oak, more suited to a medieval fortress than a home in the mountains. It opens before they can knock; reveals Pete just behind it, resplendent in white linen jacket, red silk shirt and sunglasses.

 

Myka smothers a laugh.

 

"Yeah?" he says.

 

"I'm here to see Mr. Whitefield," says Leavenworth.

 

"All of you?" says Pete, glaring at Myka through his sunglasses.

 

"They're not with me," says Leavenworth.

 

"But I would also like to speak to Mr. Whitefield," says Helena. "If he's available."

 

"He know you're coming?" says Pete. "Any of you?"

 

"No," says Leavenworth.

 

"Not exactly," says Helena.

 

"Mr. Whitefield doesn't do unscheduled visits," says Pete, and closes the door.

 

Leavenworth picks up the brass door-knocker; slams it hard against the wood.

 

Pete opens the door a second time.

 

"I thought I made myself pretty clear," he says.

 

"Come on, man," says Leavenworth. "I just want to talk to him."

 

"You need to be gone," says Pete, sliding his good hand inside his jacket. "Now."

 

Leavenworth takes a step back.

 

"Tony?" says a voice from inside the house. "What's going on here?"

 

Pete opens the door wider, affording them a view of a wood-paneled atrium, and a carpeted staircase, and Artie, in nothing but a bathrobe, descending the stairs like Scarlett O'Hara.

 

"People to see you, sir," says Pete. "They were just leaving."

 

Artie walks towards the doorway.

 

"For God's sake, Tony!" he says. "If they're here to see me, send them through! Come in, come in," he adds, beckoning them into the hall.

 

Pete steps aside to let them pass.

 

"This is a beautiful place," says Leavenworth.

 

"Thank you," says Artie. "It took a while to get it just the way I wanted it. Now, what can I do for you?"

 

Leavenworth straightens his spine; pushes back his shoulders.

 

"I'll get straight to the point," he says. "I want to buy something from you."

 

Helena snorts.

 

"Buy what, exactly?" says Artie. "I wasn't aware I was selling anything."

 

"A girl," says Leavenworth. "A singer, Leah Fox. She signed with you in April."

 

"Ah, Leah" says Artie. "Great girl. Staggering talent. A real find."

 

"But you've not done anything with her," says Leavenworth. "No tours, no releases. From what I heard, you've still got her doing dive bars out in the boondocks."

 

"I'm new to this music business," says Artie. "Still finding my way. But I have plans for her, big plans."

 

"And what line of work were you in before, Mr. Whitefield?" says Helena.

 

"Import/export," says Artie. "But it's always good to diversify, wouldn't you say?"

 

"Absolutely," says Leavenworth enthusiastically.

 

He really is an idiot, thinks Myka, and wonders: is there even any _fun_ in this, for someone like Helena?

 

"Let me ask you," says Leavenworth, "one businessman to another: what do you want for her?"

 

"She's not for sale," says Artie.

 

"Everything's for sale," says Leavenworth. "If the price is right."

 

Helena snorts again, more pointedly.

 

"And what about you?" says Artie, turning to face her. "Are you looking to buy something from me, too?"

 

"I am," says Helena. "But I'd like to think I have a little more to offer than Mr. Leavenworth here."

 

"Which is what?" he says.

 

"For Miss Fox?" says Helena. "$100,000 upfront to release her from whatever contract you have her in. 2% gross on ticket sales for the first year, 1% thereafter."

 

"You're that sure she's gonna make you money?" says Artie.

 

"I'm positive," says Helena. "I know what I can get for her, if I take her back to L.A. I have a feeling you know yourself what she's worth."

 

Artie nods.

 

"But I also know," she says, "that you don't know what to do with her. You're holding onto her because she's valuable - like a Fabergé egg you found in the attic."

 

"And if I were to give her to you, Ms...?"

 

"Chadwick. Cassie Chadwick. And if you were to give her to me, Mr. Whitefield, you'd stand to make a lot of money yourself. Without any of the time and energy and capital you'd need to invest to do it independently."

 

"$100,000," says Artie. "That's not a lot of money, Ms. Chadwick. Not to me. And if I were a betting man, I'd say it wasn't much to you either."

 

"See it as a deposit," says Helena. "The real money, that comes later. Once I get her a deal. Get her out on tour."

 

Artie thinks for a moment.

 

"In that case," he says, "I'd surely be looking for a higher percentage on those sales. If I were looking at all."

 

"2% gross over three years," says Helena. "That's the best I can do."

 

"Wait a minute!" says Leavenworth. "I haven't made my offer yet."

 

"Is it better than hers?" says Artie. "What percentage are you offering?"

 

"Yes, Mr. Leavenworth," says Helena, sneering. "What percentage _are_ you offering?"

 

"What?" he says. "Percentage? I don't know."

 

"I guess that answers _that_ question," says Helena.

 

"Looks like you and I have something to talk about," says Artie to Helena.

 

"Perfect," says Helena. "I'll call my lawyer and have him draw up the paperwork."

 

"$500,000!" says Leavenworth. "I'll give you $500,000 for her!"

 

"The deal I have in mind, you'll make more than that the first 18 months," says Helena to Artie.

 

"Sounds good to me," says Artie.

 

Helena pulls her cell out of her handbag; starts to dial.

 

"Seven-fifty upfront!" says Leavenworth desperately.

 

"Upfront?" says Artie.

 

"Do the math, Mr. Whitefield," says Helena. "It isn't worth it."

 

"A million!" says Leavenworth. "I'll give you a million dollars for her, today."

 

"Ms. Chadwick?" says Artie. "What do you say to that?"

 

"I can go to two-fifty," says Helena. "No higher, not upfront. But over time..."

 

"I like to live in the moment," says Artie, after a pause. "Who knows what might happen tomorrow? You've got yourself a deal, Mr. Leavenworth."

 

"I'll write you a check," says Leavenworth, smiling but shell-shocked.

 

"A check?" says Artie. "I don't think so."

 

"Mr. Whitefield only deals in cash," says Pete.

 

"Cash?" says Leavenworth.

 

"It's how I work," says Artie. "I like to keep things... liquid."

 

"I can have two-fifty here, in cash, tomorrow morning," says Helena, not missing a beat.

 

"I don't have that kind of money to hand," says Leavenworth. "It's all tied up."

 

"Shame," says Artie. "Ms. Chadwick, shall we?"

 

"Absolutely," says Helena, smiling at Leavenworth.

 

"I'll get it," he says. "Tomorrow. I'll get it tomorrow. I just have to... release a few things."

 

"You sure about that?" says Artie.

 

"You don't _sound_ sure," says Helena.

 

"A hundred percent," says Leavenworth, glaring at her. "A _million_ percent."

 

"Well, then," says Artie, "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

 

\----

 

Leavenworth leaves first - the Maserati accelerating down the road and back out onto the highway before Myka can make it through the door.

 

Pete joins them outside; Artie follows, lips pursed and brows furrowed, and makes a beeline for Helena.

 

"What did you think you were doing in there?" he says. "You were supposed to push him to two million, not one."

 

"He wouldn't have gone further," says Helena calmly. "Did you not _see_ him? He was panicking. Any larger an amount, and he would have backed away from the deal altogether."

 

"I don't know how many more times I can to say this to you," says Artie, "but it wasn't your call. We agreed on two million; two million was where you should have taken him."

 

"I adapted," she says, "to the conditions at hand. Isn't that what we do? Adapt?"

 

"Not without consulting the team first. We work together; we don't go rogue when it suits us."

 

"This wasn't some sort of renegade action. It was a pragmatic response to changing circumstances. I assume you'd rather a lower sum than that we abandon the enterprise altogether?"

 

"I _rather_ you did what you were supposed to. And, more and more, I'd _rather_ you weren't here with us at all."

 

Myka watches Helena; sees her face shift, subtly, from impassive to hurt and back again.

 

"I gave you this job," she says.

 

"And for what?” says Artie. “So you could make a little money? That isn't how we do things. We take _down_ the marks; we don't skim off the top."

 

"You think a million dollars won't hurt him?"

 

"Two million would have hurt him more."

 

"He'll still need to dip his hand in the till. You can still make your call to the authorities, once we're out of state."

 

"You don't know that. You have no way of knowing that. God… how could I even think we'd be able to work with someone like you?"

 

"Someone like me?"

 

"A hustler. A con artist. I should have known you'd screw us over before we were done."

 

Helena's face changes again, from hurt to anger, then a kind of bitter resignation. She's going to leave, thinks Myka; another word, and she's gone.

 

"Stop," she says - to Artie or to Helena, she isn't sure.

 

All three of them turn to look at her.

 

"Stop?" says Artie.

 

"It isn't helpful," she says, "the finger-pointing. She did what she needed to do at the time. Right, Helena?"

 

"Yes," says Helena, slowly.

 

"And we still got him."

 

"We did," says Pete, holding up his phone. "He's on his way to the city now. I'd guess to the bank."

 

"So can you just, I don't know… let it go?" she says to Artie.

 

"Let it go?" he says. "She went off-script. You know we can't afford to have anyone do that."

 

"It's a different way of working, that's all. But different isn’t bad, necessarily. She's still part of the team."

 

"For now," says Artie.

 

"For as long as she wants to be," says Myka, looking anywhere but at Helena as she speaks.

 

\----

 

They drive back to the cabin in silence.

 

“I’m sorry about what happened back there,” says Myka, as they walk into the living room.

 

“It’s quite alright,” says Helena stiffly.

 

“No, it’s not. What Artie said – I don’t think that. Pete doesn’t think that. I’m not even sure that _Artie_ does – he just gets carried away in the moment.”

 

“He’s absolutely correct, though. We’re not the same. We have entirely different motivations.”

 

“It doesn’t matter. You did a great job; played it just right.”

 

“Nevertheless. I am, as he said, a con artist, not some… crusader for justice, or however you’d characterise yourself. And very likely I would, exactly as he suggested, screw the three of you over in one way or another, given time.”

 

“I don’t believe that.”

 

“You ought to. There’s ample precedent.”

 

“I trust what I see. And I’ve seen nothing to tell me that’s true.”

 

“And what do you see?” says Helena, stepping closer.

 

“Capability,” says Myka, staying exactly where she is. “Professionalism. And loyalty, when it matters. I’ve seen how you are with Claudia.”

 

“Claudia is a special case.”

 

“I’m sure she is. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

 

“I’m not the same as you. I’m not principled, or self-sacrificing. I do this because I like it. I _like_ it.”

 

“You think I don’t?”

 

“I think it isn’t about the thrill of it, for you. I think you’re in it for the outcome, not the process.”

 

“Then you really haven’t been watching that closely.”

 

“I’ve been watching,” says Helena, her eyes on Myka’s.

 

“Good,” says Myka.

 

And kisses her.

 


	7. Cattleforge Police Department Holding Cell, Yellowstone County MT

The holding cell is as bare as any Myka's seen. From a steel bench secured to the floor, she inventories the contents: takes in the open seatless toilet; the peeling, institutional paintwork; the old-fashioned, half-rusted bars that separate inside from out. There's room enough for the four of them, and more, though there've been no other occupants since they arrived. Cattleforge PD, she suspects, doesn't see a lot of action - much less the kind of action that might necessitate consigning its visitors to a night in the drunk tank.

 

"What time is it?" says Artie, back against the wall, hands dangling between his knees.

 

"A little after 1," says Pete, cradling his swollen wrist.

 

"And we've been here how long?" says Artie.

 

"Three hours," says Myka. "Still three hours."

 

"I'd have said longer," says Helena, her forehead pressed against the bars.

 

"I can see how hard you might find it," says Myka. "Being trapped in here with us."

 

"I'm claustrophobic," says Helena. "Feeling trapped anywhere, with anyone, is far from ideal."

 

"What, with nowhere to run?" says Myka.

 

"Can you two quit it?" says Pete. "Things are tough enough without you bitching at each other."

 

"Sorry," says Myka.

 

Helena says nothing.

 

"What even happened with you, anyway?" he says, gesturing at Myka, then Helena. "I thought you were all, you know... friendly."

 

"Evidently you were wrong," says Helena.

 

"Evidently," says Myka.

 

\----

 

She'd been asleep for less than an hour when the alarm had kicked in. She'd reached over for Helena; had been disappointed but not surprised to find the other side of the bed empty.

 

She'd showered and dressed; made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

 

Helena had been sitting at the table, similarly dressed, palms wrapped around a cup of herbal tea. She'd walked up behind her, touched her lightly on the shoulder; had felt her tense under her fingers at the contact.

 

"Good morning," Helena had said - formally, stiffly, not turning around.

 

"Morning," Myka had said, sounding equally stilted even to herself.

 

"Did you sleep?"

 

"Some. You?"

 

"A little."

 

She'd poured coffee, buttered toast; eaten it standing up, away from the table, her elbows resting on the countertop. She'd washed her dishes in the sink; dried her hands, thoroughly, twice; rearranged the knives and spoons in the cutlery drawer. Watched, from the corner of her eye, as Helena sipped her tea and flicked - thunderously loudly, it had seemed to Myka - through the pages of a newspaper.

 

Eventually the silence had become too thick and stifling to ignore, and she'd spoken.

 

"Is everything okay?" she'd asked.

 

"Why would it not be?" Helena had said.

 

"I wondered if maybe you felt awkward. After yesterday."

 

"Awkward? Don't be absurd."

 

She'd been surprised by how much the casual dismissal had hurt.

 

"I'm allowed to ask the question," she'd said, bristling. "I don't do this a lot, okay? I don't know how it's supposed to go."

 

"Whereas I do, of course."

 

"I didn't say that."

 

"You didn't need to."

 

"It's true, though, isn't it? This is kind of your territory."

 

Helena had looked up at her; smiled, humorlessly.

 

"Not quite, darling," she'd said. "I'm usually gone before breakfast."

 

"I guess I shouldn't keep you, then," Myka had said. She'd slammed the drawer into the cabinet; heard the silverware rattle.

 

"You needn't worry. Claudia and I will be out of your hair by this evening. Just as soon as we've finalized payment."

 

"Payment. Sure."

 

"Were you expecting me to forgo our fee, after yesterday?"

 

"I don't know what I was expecting."

 

"Not all of us work pro bono."

 

"No, you're in it for the money, I get it. You've made it very, very clear."

 

"Must you sound _quite_ so self-righteous when you say that?"

 

"I'm sorry. I should probably work on my moral ambivalence."

 

"It hardly seems worth it, on my account."

 

"Since you're leaving?"

 

The sharp, shrill chime of her phone had drowned out Helena's reply. She'd let it ring for a second longer than necessary; let the sound wash over her.

 

"Something's wrong," Pete had said, as she'd answered.

 

"What do you mean?" she'd said.

 

"I don't know. It's just... off. I can't explain it. But my gut's telling me there's something going on here that there shouldn't be."

 

"With Leavenworth?"

 

"Yeah. He's here now, with Artie."

 

"Did he bring the money?"

 

"Yeah. I mean, I think so. But he's too calm, you know what I mean? Too cool. Nobody's that happy when they're handing over a million dollars' worth of bills."

 

"He's happy? Happy how?"

 

"What's going on?" Helena had said, standing up from the table, walking towards her.

 

"There might be a problem," she'd said, covering the mouthpiece. "With the handover."

 

"A problem?"

 

"He's smiling," Pete had said. "Like, Joker smiling. And he keeps blinking, and scratching his nose."

 

She'd panicked.

 

"You need to leave," she'd said. "Now."

 

"Leave?" he'd said. "I can't leave. Artie's in the middle of the exchange. He's... oh, shit. Shit."

 

She'd heard footsteps, a lot of them, then muffled shouting and a heavy thud, somewhere close by.

 

"He's called the cops," Pete had said quietly. "They're here. Wherever you are, Mykes, you gotta get out, quickly."

 

"Are they in the house?" she'd said. "Pete, do they have Artie?"

 

"I don't know," he'd said. "I don't know."

 

She'd moved quickly; had been pulling together her passport and a multi-currency collection of emergency funds even as the line went dead.

 

"I assume, given what I just heard," Helena had said, "that we might benefit from a swift exit?"

 

"Pack a bag," Myka had said. "And fast. Anything you don't need stays here."

 

Helena had nodded. And, seconds later, the police had arrived.

 

\----

 

"What time is it now?" asks Artie.

 

"A quarter after 1," says Myka.

 

"You really gotta get a watch," says Pete.

 

She lies down on the bench; stretches out her legs until her calves and feet hang over the edge.

 

"You seem terribly relaxed," says Helena, "considering our current predicament."

 

"I'm tired," she says. "I barely slept. What do you want me to do, pace around like a caged animal?"

 

"It might be of some comfort to know that I'm not alone in feeling somewhat anxious."

 

"Obviously I'm anxious. But I'm also exhausted."

 

"You aren't the only one who didn't sleep last night."

 

"Then maybe you should take a nap yourself."

 

"And where do you suggest I do that, since you've so considerately monopolized the only flat surface available? On the floor, perhaps?"

 

"I thought you could get comfortable anywhere?"

 

"Cut it out!" says Pete. "I mean it."

 

"Sorry," says Myka again.

 

"Why are you both so tired, anyway?" he says. "We finished up early yesterday, and neither of you even answered the phone when I called last night, and... Oh. _Oh_."

 

Myka closes her eyes; prays for unconsciousness.

 

"Well," he says finally, "that explains the snippiness, anyway."

 

"Can we please change the subject?" she says.

 

"I'd like to second that request," says Artie.

 

Eyes still closed, she catches the sound of a metal door unlocking: hears keys turning in locks, bolts sliding back from unoiled catches.

 

She opens her eyes; sees a cop - red-faced and big-bellied, a uniformed Fatty Arbuckle - stride up to the bars, wet lips spread into a grin.

 

"Grifters!" he says, taking obviously delight in naming them, taxonomizing them. "On your feet. There's someone here to see you."

 

\----

 

Helena has never been to prison. Never once has she considered it a possibility, much less an occupational hazard: she's too skilled, too meticulous, too careful. When she takes risks, those risks are calculated; when she gambles, she's secure in the knowledge that the deck is stacked, that the cards are marked, that there's a holdout strapped to her forearm. And more recently, there's been Claudia, supporting and guiding her and steering her away from recklessness.

 

Locked behind the bars of a jail cell, with Myka barely five feet away and the suddenly very real prospect of a longer-term confinement ahead of her, she wonders if she's also been lucky: if her skill and her care and her caution haven't been supplemented, at times, by injections of good fortune, of happy fortuity.

 

For three hours she stands by the door of the cell, waiting for the intervention that's come before, that has to - surely _has_ to - come again. When eventually Myka speaks to her - still angry, still hurt from earlier that morning - she feigns claustrophobia; presses her face histrionically against the bars; musters an anxious irritation that she neither feels nor can convincingly affect.

 

She's relieved, momentarily, to hear the guard announce their visitor - more than half-expecting to see Claudia just behind him, suited and booted and demanding their release into federal custody. Instead she sees Leavenworth, radiating smugness, and finds herself authentically irritated, legitimately angry.

 

"What do you want?" she says, looking him directly in the eye.

 

He backs away from the bars, shocked, self-assurance wilting under the heat of her stare.

 

"You're English," he says.

 

"And this startles you?" she says.

 

"He didn't tell me you were English," he says. "Wait, are you _all_ English?"

 

"He?" says Artie, getting to his feet. "Who's 'he'?"

 

"The guy who tipped me off about you," says Leavenworth. "About the little scam you were running."

 

"Someone called you?" says Pete. "About us?"

 

Leavenworth shakes off his surprise; resets himself.

 

"Not the point," he says, more confidently. "That's not why I'm here. I'm here to tell you: you lost."

 

"Is that so?" says Helena.

 

"Yes, that's so," he says, mimicking her accent. "You lost. You tried to play me, and you failed. Because I'm better than you, and smarter than you. Which is why I'm out here, and you're in there. And you better believe me when I tell you that I'm gonna make sure you _stay_ in there for a long time."

 

"In here?" says Helena. "In this temporary holding cell?"

 

"In some other sort of jail, then," he says. "Whatever. You'll still be locked up."

 

"And didn't you only find out about us because someone called you and told you?" says Pete. "Doesn't sound that smart to me."

 

"Doesn't matter what you think," says Leavenworth. "You're still gonna rot in a cage. You, and the girl. Soon as they find her."

 

"They won't find her," says Helena.

 

"They'll find her," he says. "And when they throw her in here with you, I'll come pay her a visit, too. But in the meantime..."

 

He pulls a folded Post-It from his pocket; opens it, reads it.

 

"What?" says Pete. "In the meantime, what? You can just leave us hanging like that."

 

"In the meantime," says Leavenworth slowly, looking directly at Artie, "James MacPherson says hello."

 

"What did you say?" says Artie, eyes widening.

 

"You heard me," says Leavenworth.

 

"He told you that?" says Artie. "MacPherson told you to say that, after he told you what we'd been doing?"

 

"That's right," says Leavenworth, smiling.

 

"Artie?" says Myka, now bolt upright on the bench. "What's going on?"

 

"Something bad," says Artie. "Something very, very bad. For all of us."

 

\----

 

"Why does Artie do it?" Helena had asked the afternoon before, her body curled around Myka's.

 

"Do what?" Myka had said, twisting around onto her back, keeping Helena close. "The grift?"

 

"The Robin Hood business. Stealing from the rich, and so on."

 

"You want to know about Artie? Not about me?"

 

"I already understand you, I think. And Pete."

 

"What do you understand about me?"

 

"Why you do it. The appeal of altruism, if you like."

 

"I'm probably going to regret saying this, but okay: tell me why I do it."

 

"There's a degree of speculation involved here, of course, but I imagine you feel yourselves wronged by some larger institutional power. That some disaster or other has befallen you both in the past, and for your own reasons you've chosen to attribute that disaster to the corporate world and its machinations."

 

Myka had turned fully onto her side then, loosening the grip of Helena's arm around her shoulders. She'd stared at Helena for a full half-minute, wordlessly; Helena had been sure in that moment that she was preparing to pull away, or shout, or throw her out of bed altogether.

 

"I want to be mad at you," Myka had said instead. "For being so glib, so... matter of fact. But actually you're right, about me anyway. Though I'd rather you weren't such an asshole about it."

 

"Do you want to... talk about it?" she'd said uneasily, conscious of moving into uncharted, potentially turbulent waters.

 

Myka had laughed.

 

"You're safe," she'd said, pulling Helena back towards her. "It's not such a festering wound, not anymore."

 

"What happened?" Helena had asked.

 

"It was my dad, not me. A Ponzi scheme, if you can believe that, my last year of college."

 

"Selling what?"

 

"Real estate investment. Only there was no real estate, obviously. He'd sunk $100,000 into it before he realised. The guy who ran it was this third-tier Madoff type - he'd barely bothered to cover his tracks. They got him, but by then the money was gone."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"Yeah, me too. A lot of people lost everything, my dad included. He had to sell the bookstore."

 

"He ran a bookshop?"

 

"He and my mom, for years. I grew up in that place. And then he had to let it go, and it... well, it broke him, for a little bit anyway."

 

"Which I assume is the point at which you met Artie and Pete."

 

"Pretty much - about a week after I graduated. I think Artie had been watching me for a while, since the trial."

 

"And he made you an offer you couldn't refuse?"

 

"An offer I didn't _want_ to refuse. Everything he was saying... it made sense to me, at the time."

 

"And now?"

 

"I told you before: I like it. I like what we do. And it's good work, really good work. We've helped a lot of people. Stopped a lot of other people who needed stopping. So, you know... it's hard to feel much regret about that."

 

She's really means it, Helena had realised. She really _is_ this person.

 

Then: I should never have let things go this far.

 

"But you have no sense of Artie's motivations?" she'd asked, closing down the line of thought before it could progress further.

 

"Nothing concrete," Myka had said. "Though if I had to guess? I'd say atonement."

 

"You think he's compensating for something?"

 

"Maybe. I can't be sure. He's never said anything to me, or to Pete as far as I know."

 

"You have a feeling, though?"

 

"I don't do intuition. That's Pete's thing."

 

"You ought to trust your own judgement."

 

"Judgement, maybe. Feelings, no."

 

Very sensible, Helena had thought. Perhaps we should both heed that advice.

 

\----

 

"Who's James MacPherson?" Pete says, once Leavenworth has gone.

 

"Someone I used to know," says Artie.

 

"A friend?" says Myka.

 

Artie slides back down to the floor; draws his knees in to his chest.

 

"My old partner," he says. "From before. Before I met the two of you."

 

"So he's one of us?" says Pete.

 

"No," says Artie, shaking his head.

 

"But he's like me?" says Helena.

 

"No," says Artie again. "Not like you, either."

 

"So I guess he's the guy from Vegas," says Pete. "With the photo."

 

"It's very likely," says Artie.

 

"Why?" says Myka. "Why would he be out to get us?"

 

"That's a very long story," says Artie.

 

"I think it's fair to say," says Helena, "that we have time to hear it."

 

"You sure about that?" says Pete, looking behind her.

 

Another guard, older and thinner, steps through the doorway and towards the cell - what, to her horror, Helena has come to think of as _their_ cell. He pulls a key from the bunch at his waist; thrusts it quickly into the locked door; turns it.

 

"You're free to go," he mumbles, staring down at his feet.

 

"What?" says Artie.

 

"On behalf of the Cattleforge Police Department," he says, more clearly, as if reading from an autocue, "I'd like to offer you all my sincerest apologies for this terrible misunderstanding."

 

"You would?" says Pete.

 

"If there's anything more we do for you during your stay in the great state of Montana," he continues, "please feel obliged to call on us at any time."

 

He swings the cell door open. Eventually, they walk through it.

 

\----

 

Claudia is waiting for them outside the station, perched on the bonnet of the Maybach.

 

"I picked it up from the cabin," she says, gesturing to the car. "Seemed a shame to waste it, since we've got the lease."

 

"It was you?" says Myka. "You got us out of there?"

 

"Yeah," says Claudia. "Sorry it took so long. I had to wait for the cops to leave before I could go back to the house and pick up my stuff."

 

"How?" says Helena.

 

"I made a call," she says.

 

"To whom?" says Helena.

 

"Do you really want to ask me that?"

 

"Irene. You called Irene."

 

"What else was I supposed to do?"

 

"I have explicitly instructed you never to do that."

 

"These were... how would you put it? Exigent circumstances."

 

"Not to interrupt whatever cryptic thing you've got going on here," says Pete, "but shouldn't we maybe get _away_ from the police station?"

 

"An excellent suggestion," says Helena.

 

"Where do you want to go?" says Myka to Artie.

 

"That depends," says Artie. "Claudia, did you bring passports?"

 

"In the back," says Claudia. "Along with a few other things. I wasn't sure what we'd need."

 

"Okay," says Artie, deep in thought. "Okay. In that case: I'd like us to go to the airport. We're going back to London."

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
